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a B . -X', . ft- J^xC^R. '* ..-+ A X- 

















































BETSY HALE 










BETSY HALE 









BETSY HALE 


By 

PEMBERTON GINTHER 

• » 

Author of The Miss Pat Series, etc. 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

BY THE AUTHOR 


PHILADELPHIA 

THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



Copyright, 1923 , by 

'THE JOAN C. WINSTON COMPANY 

PRINTED IN U. 8. A. 



SEP 24'23 


©C1A760019 • 



CONTENTS 

CBAPTEB PAGE 

I. Exit Minnie. 11 

II. Betsy Proposes. 28 

III. A Satisfactory Sunday. 48 

IV. The Coffee Man. 77 

V. What Betsy Found in the 

Cistern. 97 

VI. New Horizons .7... 115 

VII. Great Expectations. 126 

VIII. Betsy Makes a Call. 138 

IX. Betsy Helps Pack the Mis¬ 
sionary Barrel. 152 

X. Mrs. Delaney’s Advice. 169 

XI. The Darkest Hour is Just 

Before Dawn. 186 

XII. The Turn of the Long Lane 196 

XIII. What the Flower Basket 

Held for Betsy . 214 

XIV. Intervals and Interludes— 232 

XV. The Garden Party and Some 

Other Happenings. 247 

XVI. The Birthday Party . 257 

(7) 
















ILLUSTRATIONS 

Betsy Hale. Frontispiece 

PAGE 

“There!” He Breathed.81 

“Oh, Have You a Suit, Too” .... 162 
“A Penny to Bind the Matter” . . . 230 


( 9 ) 






Betsy Hale 


CHAPTER I 
Exit Minnie 

■ MIERE now, you’re all ready,” said 
Betsy with a nod and a wave of 
the toasting fork. 

She was so pleased with her work that she 
blew a kiss to the tray standing on the well- 
scrubbed deal table. 

“You dear thing, you look perfectly 
lovely!” she murmured, cocking her head to 
get the full effect. “And I did you all 
myself.” 

The tray was not really a beautiful tray 
at all. It was made of heavy enameled tin, 
and the white cloth that covered it was quite 
coarse; the china was of the plainest, and the 
spoons were not mates; but to Betsy’s eyes 
it was a masterpiece. She smiled trium-j 
phantly. 

(U) 



12 


Betsy Hale 


“Mother will see that I can do it as well as 
Minnie ever did,” she said. 

She saw no flaw in it. She did not notice 
that the slices of lemon were thick and 
uneven, or that the cake was a trifle crumbly. 
She liked the way the soda crackers were 
laid on the long dish—a celery dish off duty— 
and she admired the heavy blue cream jug 
that stood beside the fine old silver teapot 
and bowl. 

“It’s such fun to keep house,” she said 
fervently, stooping to watch the funny- 
twisted reflection of her own face in the curv¬ 
ing sides of the teapot. She laughed aloud, 
and the face grinned, too, as the the old 
clock on the shelf took up the measure. 

“It’s fun—it’s fun—it’s fun to keep house,” 
it ticked comfortably, while the bubbling 
kettle sang a steamy accompaniment. 

Out of doors a brisk, house-cleaning March 
wind was blowing, and the fire in the square- 
topped shining cook-stove crackled and 
chuckled in response. The sunny old-fash¬ 
ioned kitchen was full of little creaking 
sounds, such as very old houses always have 
when one takes time to notice. 



Exit Minnie 


13 


Betsy listened with parted lips. 

“It sounds as if the place were 'purring ,” 
she said. “How nice and cosy it is. I 
wonder I never heard it before.” 

She knew quite well it was because she had 
never been alone there before, but she pre¬ 
ferred to think it was because the old kitchen 
knew that she was happy in it. She looked 
about with a great pride of possession. 

“It’s lovely to have a house all your own,” 
she murmured, happily. 

She was sure the sun had never shone so 
brightly as it did through the sparkling panes 
of the small windows. The coarse blue china 
on the old gray dresser looked beautiful to 
her, and the gay sprays of painted flowers on 
the backs of the wide wooden settle and worn 
wooden chairs gave her as much pleasure as 
any florist’s window she had ever seen. 

“A kitchen is a wonderful place—when 
you understand it,” she said thoughtfully. 
“Yet everyone in town hated them. Even 
the Domestic Science girls said they couldn’t 
bear a regular kitchen after the fine big cook¬ 
ing place at college. Kitchens are like some 
people, I guess. You have to get acquainted 
with them to really like them.” 




14 


Betsy Hale 


She looked all around the kitchen again, 
noticing things she had overlooked before. 

“Yes, one must get acquainted,” she said 
positively. 

She was so small and slight that it was hard 
to believe she was almost fourteen, although 
she had an odd little air of wisdom which 
came from being much with books and people 
beyond her years. And, in spite of the 
childish curve of her sensitive mouth, you 
could see at once that she was a decided per¬ 
son in her own way. Her nice nose had 
some very positive little freckles on it. Her 
forget-me-not blue eyes were direct and 
steady. Her thick brown hair hung straight 
and shining, bound about her shapely head 
with a sober brown ribbon. Everything 
about her was sincere and thorough-going. 

And yet she had imagination. 

She had plenty of it, too, for she did not 
at all realize that the kitchen was a shabby 
place; nor that her dull brown linen dress 
was a very plain dress indeed; nor that the 
broad-toed shoes were several sizes too wide 
for her slender springing feet. She smoothed 
the dull dress and settled the sober bow on her 



Exit Minnie 


15 


rich hair, and she smiled and nodded and 
threw kisses to the plain clean tray on the 
plain clean table, glowing at it with as much 
satisfaction as though it were Aladdin’s 
massy silver tray with the twenty massy 
silver dishes. 

“It’s quite as nice as Minnie ever made it,” 
she repeated with emphasis. “I wonder what 
Mother will say when she hears she has 
gone? I wish I didn’t have to tell her right 
away.” 

A line came into her smooth forehead as 
she glanced at a note lying near the tray. 
It was a cocked-hat note and was written 
on ruled pink paper and was addressed in a 
sprawling hand, “Mrs. Hale, Present.” 

“She’s a scrabbly writer, even if she did 
know a lot about cooking and things,” said 
Betsy, frowning at the pink missive. “I 
hope she hasn’t said anything mean—about 
being worked to death, or a cottage in a 
wilderness. She was always grumbling the 
last few days, though she was nice enough 
when we first came. She changed a lot in a 
week.” 

She poked the note with the toasting fork. 



16 


Betsy Hale 


as though it were responsible. She stared 
at it with her head on one side like a bright 
bird, and then like a bird before it sings, she 
gave her brown head a quick little quirk. 
That meant she had made a decision. 

“I know what I am going to do with you,” 
she said firmly. “You shan’t spoil our tea, 
if I can help it.” 

She tucked the note behind the old clock, 
and though the anxious line still showed 
between her eyes, she seemed better satisfied. 

“I won’t tell Mother at first,” she planned. 
“I’ll be so di-verting she won’t miss Minnie— 
she doesn’t notice much, thank goodness. 
After tea when she’s dreadfully comfortable. 
I’ll get around to it somehow. Surprises like 
that are horrid when you are tired, and poor 
Mother is always pretty tired now. She 
never laughs out loud and she hardly sings 
at all.” 

She stood absently staring at the bubbling 
kettle and tapping the table with the long 
fork as she thought of the change that had 
come to her gay, girlish mother in the three 
long years since her father’s death. 

“It’s dreadful to be broken down,” she 




Exit Minnie 


17 


thought sadly. “It means that you can’t 
do anything you like, though you go on work¬ 
ing all you dare. And you get thin and 
white, and when you smile your nice, crinkly 
smiles, there are creases in the corners of 
your mouth where the dimples used to be.” 

She did not hear the cosy purring now, for 
her mind was slipping back piecing together 
scraps of memory and trying to understand. 
There was a sharp little ache in the corner of 
her heart where the memory of her father 
was, for they had been great chums, though 
Betsy had been only ten and he had been one 
of the cleverest professors at the big university.; 
She sighed and then glowed and smiled. 

“Wasn’t he big and strong, though?” she 
thought, wistfully. “We did have such good 
times on our picnics in the park and at the 
Zoo. Mother always wanted to go, but she 
never had time.” 

A confused recollection of the many claims 
on her pretty mother’s time troubled her for 
a moment, but she shook it off. “There 
were so many committee meetings and reform 
things, and of course they all wanted her. 
It wouldn’t have been right for her to stay 


2 



18 


Betsy Hale 


away. But she’s dropped them all since she 
went into the Truth and Simplicity League,” 
she said with a satisfied air. 44 All we think 
about now is to be simple-minded and friendly 
and all that. It’s about all she could do, any¬ 
way, since she’s always slaving for that old 
publishing house now.” 

Betsy had never been quite clear how far 
this League, which Mrs. Hale had gone 
into about a year ago, had been the cause for 
their altered way of living. She knew that 
about the time her mother became interested 
in it they had moved from the big city and 
had gone to a small town in the north. She 
knew that they had begun to live very plainly, 
and that her pretty frocks, as they wore out, 
were replaced by the dull linen garb with the 
broad-toed shoes, which she had accepted as 
part of their devotion to the League. 

It was at this time, too, that her own name 
of Elizabeth had given place to the plainer 
one of Betsy, as a proof their entire simplicity. 
Betsy liked it, though she remembered how 
some of her mother’s friends had cried out 
against it, and how the girls in the public 
school where she went at this period used to 



Exit Minnie 


19 


giggle over it. There, too, in that dull little 
town, her mother’s vivid health began to dim 
until it became a matter of concern, and they 
were always trying to avoid what the doctors 
called “a complete break-down,” though 
they never seemed to get quite out of reach 
of it. 

How much of their altered manner of living 
was due to the League’s influence and how 
much to her mother’s health, Betsy had not 
been able to decide. Even when her mother, 
with a strange white look on her face, had 
told her that their money was almost gone 
and that all they had was the income from 
her writing and the tiny house up among the 
hills, which Great-aunt Sara had left them a 
short while ago—even then Betsy had not 
realized what it meant. Money had been 
counted such a little thing that it did not 
seem to be worth thinking about. 

“Let’s go live in the house,” said Betsy. 
“We can be as True and Simple as we please 
there.” She w r as a bit tired of the girls at 
the public school, you see. 

“The air is very good, I hear,” said her 
mother absently. “I think it would be a 
good thing.” 



20 


Betsy Hale 


But there had been Mr. Robert Gun, 
seventy-six years old and a tenant of the 
small house for ten of those years. They 
could not turn him out, could they? It was 
hard to wait, but they had to content them¬ 
selves with the stuffy boarding-house, where 
Mrs. Hale went on trying to write and 
Betsy prayed every night that Mr. Gun might 
take a fancy to another house and move 
away. That month was a very long one to 
Betsy. 

So it had gone until one sharp day in 
February brought the news that Mr. Robert 
Gun had moved indeed, having taken his 
place in the quiet churchyard and leaving 
the little house, with all his modest furnishings, 
clean and ready for the next comer. Betsy 
felt stricken with remorse for her prayers 
until her delight got the better of her. Her 
satisfaction grew when they heard that Mr. 
Gun, having no relatives, had bequeathed 
his worldly goods to the local Home Mission 
Society, who in turn offered the modest 
household gear at a very modest sum to the 
willing owners of the little house. 

And so Betsy and her mother had found 



Exit Minnie 


21 


themselves in a house of their own—a house 
tucked away on the edge of a tiny village and 
screened from the rest of the village houses 
by a wide up-sw T eep of field and a beechwood 
copse about the size of a tennis court. It 
was a low, two-storied, white-plastered house 
with green shutters and a white paling fence 
about its front garden. Betsy loved it the 
moment she laid eyes on it. 

She liked everything about it. She liked 
the queer way it stood at the angle of the 
two roads, with the high-road in front and 
the winding, hilly red-shale road cutting 
across its garden and grass plots at the side, 
making a sharp angle at the corner. She was 
proud of its three kinds of walks—the neat 
gravel walk to the front door; the lovely, 
worn flag-stone path to the old grape arbor 
at the side, and the back-door boardwalk, 
with wide cracks in it that caught your toes 
if you stepped carelessly. She liked the four 
pine trees, too, that stood like sentinels along 
the palings by the highway. She was much 
uplifted over the tiny red barn beyond the 
scrap of a vegetable garden and she examined 
the harness hanging on big wooden pegs 



22 


Betsy Hale 


against the whitewashed walls inside, as 
though she already had a prancing horse to 
put between the shafts of the red-wheeled 
buggy that stood there. 

Mrs. Hale had been quite as pleased as 
Betsy, and Minnie, the maid they had brought 
from town with them, had been almost as 
much interested as they were, and the first 
couple of days passed gloriously for Betsy. 
Her mother did no writing and they strayed 
about the house, helping Minnie, who was all 
good-natured smiles. There was really very 
little to do in the way of house-cleaning, for 
Mr. Gun had left the place spotless, but they 
re-arranged furniture and changed the few 
prints that hung on the walls, and enjoyed the 
unusual work exceedingly. 

Mrs. Hale had decided that neither of 
them should go exploring until all should be 
arranged within doors, and so their minds 
should be left entirely free for those first 
impressions of the village and country which, 
as a writer, she valued so highly. Betsy had 
been quite content, until on the fourth day, 
when the books were being unpacked, her 
mother had discovered a bulky bundle, which 



Exit Minnie 


23 


Betsy knew by its aspect to be manuscript 
and which Mrs. Hale seized upon with an 
eager exclamation, and carried off to her 
room, where the sound of the typewriter 
began to be heard, clicking off the words with 
monotonous speed. 

It was then that Minnie began to voice 
her desires for a movie show, as she called it, 
and to become more and more critical, while 
Betsy spent her time between the delights of 
their out-of-door possessions and the mysteries 
of Minnie’s domain. She watched that capa¬ 
ble person perform the tasks about the house 
until she was sure she could do them herself. 
No amount of persuasion, however, would 
induce Minnie to resign any of her duties, 
though she grumbled increasingly as the 
yearning for town delights grew upon her, and 
up to the very last minute she reigned supreme 
in her department. 

“It’s just a week and two days since she 
came,” thought Betsy. “I hope the next one 
will stay longer. I can do lots of things, 
though, and Mother shan’t be bothered a bit.” 

The kettle boiled over and she sprang to 
push it back, glancing out of the window at the 



24 


Betsy Hale 


hilly back road where the sunset was flaming 
behind the bare trees. She gave a little cry 
as she saw a slight, wind-blown figure coming 
over the crest of the hill—a figure with 
fluttering skirts and a slow, light step. 

“Why, there’s Mother now!” she cried. 
“I’ll have to rush-” 

She seized a match and flew into the sitting- 
room, where the fire was ready laid, and she 
had it alight in a moment. She was deliciously 
excited. There were so many things to do 
all at once. 

A sound like that of a subdued carpet 
beater caught her ear as she rose from the 
hearth rug, and she turned instantly. A dull 
hairy yellowish object was squirming abjectly 
under the shelter of the Morris chair. 

“Why, Mac, you bad boy, you’re here, are 
you?” she cried reproachfully. “I thought 
you’d gone with Mother, like a good dog. 
You know you were bought just iggspressly 
to take care of us, and here you are, lying 
about under chairs by yourself.” 

Mac was a recent purchase and Minnie 
had warned her against him as a particularly 
cross beast, but he looked so placid, as he lay 




Exit Minnie 


25 


on his back with his paws waving that Betsy 
laughed and stooped to give the rough head 
a swift pat, as she hurried to the kitchen. 

Mac, entirely satisfied with himself and 
seeming to be in a very good humor, careered 
after her, growing much excited as he saw the 
preparations for tea. He frisked about under 
her feet and barked at very movement which 
suggested food. 

“Do keep out of the way, please,” urged 
Betsy. “I’ll have to put you out if you don’t 
behave. You never acted this way with 
Minnie. You know you didn’t.” 

Her rebukes were wasted on him, for he 
gave vent to his feelings very openly. He 
barked joyfully at the sight of the bread box 
and even went so far as to smell the tea 
caddy while Betsy was measuring out the tea 
as she had seen Minnie do it. 

“I do believe you’re hungry,” she said, and 
the volley of barks that answered her proved 
that Mac understood her perfectly. 

In spite of her haste, she poured some milk 
into a bowl and broke bread into it, carry¬ 
ing it outside to the shed, where she set it on 
the floor, and when he fell upon it with hungry 



26 


Betsy Hale 


gulps, she went back to the kitchen well 
pleased. “I don’t believe he’s half as 
cross as Minnie said,” she thought, as she 
hurried about, “and if I don’t try to be too 
friendly all at once, he’ll get to be quite nice 
in time.” A glance from the window showed 
her mother pausing on the hill to watch the 
sunset. “And when she gets to looking at 
the sky and things, one never knows how 
long she’ll stop,” said Betsy, thankful for 
the respite. 

Mrs. Hale must have lingered much on 
the way, for the toast was buttered and 
sizzling on its hot plate, the tray had been 
whisked into the sitting-room and put on a 
stool before the fire, which was roaring and 
crackling with a will; and Betsy had time to 
get to the front door before the gate creaked 
and footsteps fell on the neat gravel path. 

She tugged at the stiff old lock and flung 
open the door. 

Mrs. Hale, smiling and stepping slowly, 
with her dress and coat fluttering in the clean 
March wind and with her smart little hat all 
one side, was at the door-stone. 

“Tea’s all ready!” cried Betsy. “Come 



Exit Minnie 


27 


into the sitting-room and get warm. There’s 
a lovely fire and the toast’s as brown as a 
berry!” 



CHAPTER II 


Betsy Proposes 

“\H7HAT was it like? Did you see 
\/\J any nice people? You’re awfully 
* * late,” cried Betsy with her forget- 
me-not eyes shining and her cheeks flushed 
with hurry and expectation. 

Her mother’s way of coming in, breathless 
and smiling, as from some delightful adven¬ 
ture, always went to Betsy’s head and made 
her feel that life was simply crowded w T ith 
thrilling possibilities. 

Mrs. Hale laughed a sweet tremulous laugh 
and kissed Betsy on the tip of her nose. 
“Toast and a roaring big fire? That’s good 
of Minnie, I’m sure,” she said brightly. 
“Did she do it of her own accord or did you 
put her up to it?” 

She was small and delicately made and she 
had waving light hair and a mouth that 
crinkled easily; her blue eyes had an eager, 
appealing look, like the eyes of a small child, 

( 28 ) 


Betsy Proposes 


29 


which all her years at school and college had 
not been able to quench. She had a way of 
forgetting one topic and hurrying on to 
another, following the thoughts in her own 
mind, regardless of question or comment. 

Betsy was so used to this that she hardly 
noticed that her questions were unanswered. 
She knew that her mother’s recital would be 
all the better for the delay. So she set about 
serving tea, taking her post at the tray with 
great pride. 

“Doesn’t it look nice,Mother?’’she asked. 
“I hope you’re hungry. Will you have two 
lumps? The lemon’s pretty strong today— 
being so thick, you know.” 

Mrs. Hale had turned away to pull off 
her coat. Her small beautiful hands fluttered 
up to her hat, found the pins and pulled them 
out. She flung the smart little hat with the 
plain coat on the carpet-covered lounge and 
ran her fingers across her eyes with a tired 
gesture, but when she faced Betsy she was 
radiant again. 

“Two lumps and everything else you have. 
I’m simply ravenous,” she answered, sinking 
into the Morris chair and curling up cosily. 



30 


Betsy Hale 


She nodded at the tea tray. “Looks wonder¬ 
fully good, I’m sure. Just the thing after a 
long walk in the wind. I’m sorry your 
lessons kept you home, though I warned you 
what would happen if you left your Latin 
verse till the end of the week. You’re always 
slow on that, you know.” 

Betsy nodded, pouring the tea into her 
mother’s cup with great care. She was glad 
that there had been no questions as to 
Minnie so far. 

“Now I must tell you about the library— 
though it really isn’t much of a place after 
all,” began Mrs. Hale. “One could see 
how easily it might be improved by someone 
who had brains and experience-” 

“Now, Mother,” cried Betsy in alarm, 
dropping the sugar with a clatter. “You 
promised you wouldn’t reform anything here. 
You said you would rest and keep quiet.” 

Mrs. Hale gave an amused laugh. “So 
I did, Betsy girl, so I did,” she agreed cheer¬ 
fully. “And I’ll stick to it. I suppose,” she 
added thoughtfully, “that I have quite enough 
to fill my days as it is.” 

Betsy thought of the bundle of manuscript 




Betsy Proposes 


31 


that had supplanted the regular writing, but 
she said nothing. She handed the tea and 
brought out the toast and cake, while her 
mother began to talk of all that she had 
seen in her long walk. Betsy had poured tea, 
when they had it, ever since they began the 
Simple Life, and although she had only lemon 
and hot water for herself she enjoyed the tea 
hour immensely. 

“I don’t mind missing this afternoon,” 
she said, slipping the lumps into her cup and 
watching the bubbles. “I’d rather start in 
with church tomorrow morning. Besides, 
I can hear about the people you saw and then 
when I see them, I can tell if I can recognize 
them.” 

Mrs. Hale nodded. “First of all, then, 
comes Mrs. Worthington, who has asked you 
to go with her daughter, Selma, to the Friday 
Sewing Class. I accepted for you. What 
next—the library or the people?” 

Betsy was delighted with this beginning. 
“Tell me about the people. I’m wild to hear 
about everything at once,” she said. “All 
I’ve seen so far is two white men going to 
work and a colored man and woman cutting 





32 


Betsy Hale 


the trees up on the edge of the big field. 
Nobody seems to go by while I’m looking.” 

Mrs. Hale plunged into a vivid descrip¬ 
tion of the library and its patrons and Betsy 
could see the bare, ungracious room; the 
kind, incompetent librarian; the stout ruddy¬ 
faced women in tightly-fitted clothes; the 
thin, flat-chested ones in loose wraps and 
velvet turbans; the rows of worn books 
where Fiction triumphed over Travel and 
Biography, and all the other features of the 
scene. 

Betsy forgot everything in her interest in 
the graphic picture. She let the lemonade 
grow cold in her cup and she ate her cake 
without tasting it. The pink note behind the 
clock faded from her mind as she listened to 
her mother’s last words. 

Betsy had been so interested, and she was 
so used to her mother’s face, and the twilight 
grew so rapidly as they talked that she did not 
see how the shadows deepened, too, on the 
bright face opposite, or how the dark lines 
under the shining eyes deepened with fatigue. 
But when the fire flared up suddenly and she 
saw her mother’s hands outstretched to the 
blaze, she cried out in amazement. 



Betsy Proposes 


33 


“Oh, Mother, your hands are just thin pink 
shells—I can see right through them:’ 5 

Mrs. Hale laughed and cuddled her hands 
in her lap as if to hide them. “Never mind 
my hands, dearie/’ she said gayly. “Every¬ 
one’s hands look queer in the firelight. Tell 
me how you got along with your translations? ” 

Betsy, unconvinced, spread out her own 
fingers to the fire, but though they shone 
pink enough at the edges, they were not like 
her mother’s hands. Once again she said 
nothing. Her blue eyes clouded and her 
enchanted hour was over. She remembered 
the pink note behind the clock and she 
almost found it in her heart to hate the 
missing Minnie. 

Her mother seemed to read her thoughts. 

“ Where is Minnie? ” she asked. “ I haven’t 
heard her since I came in.” 

v. * 

Betsy knew the moment had come. She 
began to talk quickly. 

“Oh, Mother dear, I got the tray all by 
myself and I made the tea, too. I can do all 
sorts of things until the other-” 

Mrs. Hale broke in j[on her with the 
bewildered air she always had for household 
$ 




34 


Betsy Hale 


things. “But what has that to do with it?” 
she asked. “Why did Minnie allow you to 
do her work? You were to make up your 
Latin verse.” 

“Oh, but I love housework, and you shan’t 
be bothered a bit,” cried Betsy. “Really, 
you won’t have to stop writing a single 
instant-” 

Mrs. Hale sat erect. “Betsy, what does 
all this devotion to housework mean?” she 
demanded. “Where is Minnie?” 

As she half rose, Betsy put out an imploring 
hand. 

“Oh, please don’t,” she said beseechingly. 
“Please don’t mind, Minnie’s gone!” 

“Gone?” echoed Mrs. Hale blankly. 
“Gone? What do you mean?” 

Betsy gulped over the disagreeable facts, 
but she told them swiftly. 

“She w r as going out of the gate with her 
two suitcases wdien I saw 7 her from my dormer 
window,” she explained. “I called to her 
just as she slammed the gate, but she wouldn’t 
stop. She shouted back that she had left a 
note for you and she went straight on. She 
took the three o’clock stage at the store.” 




Betsy Proposes 


35 


“Well, well, so she’s gone,” said Mrs. 
Hale, dropping back into her chair with less 
displeasure than Betsy had looked for. “She 
left a note, you say? Do you know where 
it is?” 

Betsy was so relieved at the way she was 
taking it that she forgot all her carefully pre¬ 
pared speeches about her own ability as a 
housekeeper, and she flew for the kitchen with 
hope rising gayly within her. 

Mrs. Hale read the scrawled lines with 
an abstracted air. 

“Hm-m-m. She says she gave me notice 
day before yesterday,” she murmured. “I do 
seem to recall her talking about something 
that seemed to agitate her, but I was busy 
and I suppose I didn't pay much attention.” 

She dropped the note into her lap and 
gazed thoughtfully into the fire, while Betsy 
waited on pins and needles. She was not 
surprised that her mother should have neg¬ 
lected Minnie’s warning, for she knew how 
absorbing her writing always was to her, and 
this new bundle of papers had fairly swallowed 
her up since she had discovered it. She could 
see, by her mother’s unusual earnestness. 



36 


Betsy Hale 


that something important was to be said on 
the matter, however, and she waited with 
what patience she could muster. 

At last Mrs. Hale came out of her 
reverie. She smiled and turned to Betsy. 
As the glancing firelight shone on her pretty 
thin face and wide, wistful eyes, Betsy’s whole 
heart went out to her in love and admiration. 

“This note simplifies matters for us, my 
dear,” she said with a brave flutter of gayety 
in her sweet voice. “I have just found that 
we should have to dispense with her in a 
short time at any rate. I was thinking it 
all out as I came home. And this saves the 
bother of discharging her. I’ve never dis¬ 
charged anyone, and I’m not sure I could 
do it properly,” she ended with a little laugh. 

“Why—” began Betsy, when her mother 
interrupted her. 

Her face was more serious now and she 
spoke in a low, reluctant tone, as though the 
confession were very distasteful to her. 

“I haven’t been able to sleep and I have had 
such strange pains in my head,” she said 
hurriedly. “I thought I ought to see the 
doctor—I didn’t want it to get worse, you 



Betsy Proposes 


37 


know. So I stopped in on my way home, and 
found him a very civil intelligent person— 
quite the sort of man one could have con¬ 
fidence in. He said a great many things 
which I didn’t quite understand—nervous 
strain resulting in things with queer names 
that I had never heard of, and the long and 
short of it is, my dear, that I shall have to 
take a great deal of out-of-door exercise and 
eat and sleep all I can, or I shall have-” 

“Oh, not a complete breakdown!” cried 
Betsy with all her castles tumbling about 
her ears. “Oh, Mother, not that!” 

Mrs. Hale laughed her tremulous sweet 
laugh, but she did not deny it. “You see, 
we shan’t be able to afford a maid, since I 
am to do less writing for a while. And so we 
shall have to give up the house and board 
somewhere in the neighborhood. The air 
is very good.” 

“Give up the house?” cried Betsy, her face 
going white. “Why, we’ve just come here. 
We can’t give up the house.” 

Her mother looked at her sorrowfully. 
“I am afraid we will have to do many things 
we don’t like, my dear,” she said gently. 




38 


Betsy Hale 


“We shall have so very little money now that 
even in this tiny house a maid would be 
impossible. We can board in the village or 
on a farm and we shall be quite comfortable, 
I hope. 55 

Betsy’s eyes had been growing very intent, 
and as her mother finished, she sprang to her, 
catching both hands in an imploring grasp. 

“I’ve been thinking dreadfully hard,” she 
said breathlessly, “and I’ve a plan—if you’ll 
only try it. Let’s stay here. I’ll do the 
work and you can write as much as the 
doctor lets you and be out of doors all you 
want. I can make fires and cook potatoes 
and broil steak and toast anything! I’ve 
watched Minnie hundreds of times. We’ve 
Mac to take care of us, and it ought to be 
terribly cheap to live in our own house and 
do our own work. Please, please think of it, 
Mother dearest, for I’d simply die if I had to 
leave here.” 

Betsy was not the sort which overflows 
easily, and her mother looked still more 
serious, though she frowned in a perplexed 
way, shaking her head doubtfully as she 
listened. 



Betsy Proposes 


39 


“It’s too big an undertaking to go into a 
new business without any experience,” she 
said slowly. “I couldn’t allow you to take 
such a burden on yourself and I know nothing 
about such things. The work keeps on all 
the time, too. You can’t put it away if you 
are tired, like writing can be put away. 
When you get one day’s work done, you 
have to start in the next morning all over 
again. It’s appalling to think of it.” 

Betsy was not to be discouraged. The 
daring idea had full possession of her. Toss¬ 
ing back her hair with fingers that trembled 
with eagerness, she made her plea with all the 
power she had. 

“Oh, do try it—even for one tiny week!” 
she implored. “I’ll do everything, so you 
won’t get tired, and it won’t be a bit of a 
burden to me. I’ll just love it! I’ve learned 
lots of things from watching Minnie and 
there’s a cook book in the table drawer. 
I’ll study my lessons harder than ever, and 
I’ll promise to be frightfully good and cheerful, 
no matter what happens. Why, think of 
it! We’ve been here only a week and two 
days, and it’ll soon be spring, and, oh, I do 





40 


Betsy Hale 


so ache to see apple trees in blossom and to 
hear the bees in the clover. What’s the use 
of learning Latin verse if I can’t see the real 
things on our own real place? I don’t know 
a Sabine farm from an ash dump!” 

“ Betsy,” said her mother in her quietest 
tone. 

Betsy hung her head a moment, but her 
passionate desire for home-making was too 
new and too strong to be silenced. She 
used her last resource timidly, for it was part 
of a dear memory. 

“F-father liked the country,” she ventured, 
and then was silent, growing hot and cold 
between hope and fear. 

Mrs. Hale sat with her chin in her hand. 
“I don’t know—I don’t know,” she murmured 
over and over again. “I am very much per¬ 
plexed. I don’t get used to making decisions 
without your father.” 

She stirred uneasily in her chair and 
frowned as she went on. “It certainly would, 
be economical. We might get a woman to 
do the cleaning—I don’t know. 

“And then she fell silent for a long time, 
staring at the fire, while Betsy kept a tight 



Betsy Proposes 


41 


rein on herself. She was used to waiting 
while her mother thought things out. Think¬ 
ing was an important occupation in a house 
where thoughts written on paper brought in 
most of the money. This was the hardest 
waiting that Betsy had ever known, but it 
came to an end at last. 

Her mother sighed and spoke. “I suppose 
we might try it,” she said, half reluctantly. 
“A w T eek or so would do no harm. The 
exercise might benefit me, who knows? I 
can’t get strong by writing. That’s been 
proved. We will try it for a week, my dear.” 

Betsy was too much relieved to find speech 
at once, and Mrs. Hale’s smile flashed at 
her suddenly. 44 Do you really think we can 
do it?” she asked gayly. 44 You’ll have to 
teach me all you have learned and we’ll 
have to bolt our doors to all the wonderful 
housekeepers of the village until we’ve prac¬ 
ticed our arts in secret for ever so long.” 

Betsy could not laugh. Her feelings were 
too deep for that. She flung herself on her 
knees beside her mother and kissed the thin 
hands over and over again. 

“I’ll simply slave if we can only stay here,” 



42 


Betsy Hale 


she promised. “I love it so here in this dear 
little, queer little house.” 

Mrs. Hale patted the brown head and 
said cheerfully, “We’re really very poor, you 
know. I don’t think you realize how little 
we have. We never went into those matters 
much, did we? I wasted lots of money 
after your father died. I wasn’t used to 
managing affairs, you see. I wish now that 
I’d been more prudent. Those great ency¬ 
clopedias and expensive reference books took 
a great deal of money.” She broke off with 
a little laugh. “What’s the use lamenting 
them, though? I might have put my money 
in a bank that failed. I’m really better off 
with my encyclopedias, after all.” 

Betsy was so aflame with zeal that she 
hardly heeded after the first words, for they 
had given her something very definite to 
think about. 

“Let’s begin to do without things right 
away,” she suggested cheerfully. “We can 
do without oranges for breakfast and-” 

“No, we can’t,” interposed her mother 
decisively. “We may have to do without a 
maid and we may be denied many luxuries 




Betsy Proposes 


43 


we’d like to have, but we aren’t going to 
either starve ourselves or work ourselves to 
death. If we can’t make this experiment 
happily and comfortably we need not make 
it at all—remember that, Betsy. We still 
have enough to board at some simple village 
house, and that is what we shall do if we find 
ourselves uncomfortable here.” 

Betsy felt crushed, for her mother’s tone 
was final, but her spirits were too strong to 
suffer a long eclipse. The week or so men¬ 
tioned as the limit of time for their experiment 
seemed very long to her, and she was sure 
that, with proper management, the com¬ 
fortable and happy housekeeping required 
by her mother would easily be established in 
that time. 

They set a while busy with their thoughts 
and then Betsy broke out: 

“Let’s make tea into supper,” she suggested 
with considerable pride in the idea. “There’s 
some cold ham and lettuce in the ice chest— 
they’re easy to get. And I can bring in some 
bread and butter and jam. We’ll make 
fresh tea right here, and it will be great fun.” 

Her mother gave in so readily that Betsy 



44 


Betsy Hale 


went further and urged her to stay in the 
big chair while the preparations were going 
forward. Mrs. Hale was too tired to resist, 
and she sank back thankfully, while Betsy 
went off to rummage. 

She brought the food gayly into the cosy 
circle of the sitting-room fire with Mac 
sedately at her heels. “Minnie did every¬ 
thing before she left,” she announced as she 
set her burden on the tray. “She’s filled the 
dining-room heater to the brim and brought 
in enough coal to last forever. And she baked 
a lot of these biscuit and made some fresh 
cake. Everything is in perfect order, too.” 

Mrs. Hale sat up, shaking back the 
fluff of wavyjhair above her eyes. “How 
good it looks,” she exclaimed. “I believe 
I’m actually hungry yet, in spite of barely 
having had my tea. This is like a sort of 
game. So entirely different from anything 
we have done that it makes one hungry.” 

“You’ll like it better and better,” proph-’ 
esied Betsy happily. “Perhaps it will make 
you sleep better, too.” 

They had a merry meal, Mac slept on the 
hearth rug while they chatted over their 



Betsy Proposes 


45 


supper, and Mrs. Hale seemed to forget 
the clamoring manuscript up-stairs and threw 
herself into the new game with all her heart. 

“Washing dishes is far more agreeable than 
I imagined it,” she confessed after they had 
made everything tidy again in the old kitchen 
and were shutting up the house before going 
to bed. “We’ve been a prodigiously long 
while about it tonight, but that was because 
there was so much to explore and understand. 
I believe, too, that cooking may be quite as 
interesting as any chemistry problem. I 
shall try it myself tomorrow.” 

“But I’m to get breakfast,” Betsy reminded 
her. “You promised to stay up-stairs until 
I called. You promised, Mother, and-” 

“What a lot of promises I seem to make to 
my small daughter,” laughed Mrs. Hale 
fastening the big extra bolt on the front door. 
“It’s a bad habit, I find, but I’ll keep my 
word. I’ll stay in my room till I hear you 
call, but it’s the last time, I warn you.” 

Betsy kissed her good-night at the top of 
the stairs, and went on up to her dear dormer 
room, with a light heart and springing step. 

The young moon was sending long, slanting 




46 


Betsy Hale 


shafts of silver in at the low deep-silled 
windows, lighting the simple room with its 
lovely mysterious radiance. Betsy dropped 
on her knees and rested her elbows on the 
wide sill. She could see far down the high¬ 
way where the white road wound between the 
hills but she liked better to drop her eyes 
to the sharp triangle beneath her window, 
where the sentinel pines stood guarding the 
old arbor and the palings showed white in 
the moonlight. 

“It’s all our own,” she whispered exultantly. 
“All our very, very own. Oh, if we can only 
stay!” 

In the silence she could hear the faint, thin 
strokes of the kitchen clock and she counted 
them in dismay. 

“Ten o’clock!” she cried. “I’ll never get 
awake in the morning at this rate!” 

She hurried into Minnie’s deserted room 
and got the alarm clock, wound and set it 
and put it on the window sill nearest her bed. 
She folded the dull brown linen frock care¬ 
fully, for she was naturally neat, and she 
braided her thick hair tighter than usual, for 
she was thinking very hard. She had the 



Betsy Proposes 


47 


breakfast all planned before she unlaced the 
broad-toed shoes. 

“I’m growing up dreadfully fast now,” 
she thought. “Most of people don’t begin 
to keep house till they’re really very old.” 

As she slipped into bed after her earnest 
prayers were said, the alarm clock on her 
window sill ticked out the cheerful refrain. 

“It’s fun—it’s fun—it’s fun to keep house!” 

Betsy dropped asleep with the words tap¬ 
ping on her brain and a satisfied smile on 
her lips. 



CHAPTER m 


A Satisfactory Sunday 


W HEN Betsy awoke the next morning 
she did not recall at first what had 
happened. A misty idea that some¬ 
thing agreeable was in the air came to her 
and she sat up with a start, blinking at the 
faint rosy light that shone from the east 
window. 

“Pm to get breakfast,” she remembered 
joyfully and she cast an anxious glance at 
the alarm clock which was ticking away 
lustily with its round face blushing pink in 
the hopeful sunrise light. “Thank goodness, 
I’m ahead of time,” she added. “The alarm 
hasn’t gone off yet.” 

She sprang out of bed, switched off the 
alarm, and then rushed to her dressing| 
The cold water brought the happy color to 
her cheeks—she had no time for a bath this 
morning—and she slipped into her clothes 
and went softly down-stairs. Everything 

( 48 ) 



A Satisfactory Sunday 


49 


looked very dim and still and unnatural, and 
she hastened to push the heavy shutters wide 
to let in the comfortable daylight. She 
could see the pines nodding in the flood of 
golden sunshine. 

“It’s going to be a lovely day,” she thought, 
taking a deep breath of the pure air. “How 
warm it is—almost like spring! Everything’s 
bound to go right on a day like this.” 

She ran to shut up the fire as she had seen 
Minnie do, and she got fresh water for the 
kettle from the little green pump in the 
kitchen sink. And then she set the table, 
whistling softly to herself and planning a 
happy future. 

She was so busy with her thoughts that she 
had not heard the footsteps outside, and the 
sudden hammering on the kitchen door made 
her jump. 

“Hey there! Where’s the milk kettle?” 
shouted a voice at the crack of the door. 

Betsy gasped. She had forgotten to hang 
[the kettle on the palings as Minnie had done. 

The door slammed before she could answer. - 
She seized a tin from the closet and rushed out 
after the boy, who was making for the comer 

4 



50 


Betsy Hale 


of the grassy triangle. The milk wagon stood 
on the road near the point where it met the 
highway. 

The boy did not turn at her call, but allowed 
her to catch up with him at the fence corner, 
when, without looking back, he caught the 
tin from her, leaped the palings and swung 
himself lightly on the back of his wagon. He 
was in short trousers, yet he seemed an 
important person. 

“We want half of what we usually get,” 
said Betsy firmly. She was prepared to argue 
with him, for it was her first economy, and 
she was proud of it. 

The boy, however, did not seem affected 
by the change. He whistled as he plunged 
the dipper deep into the big brass-rimmed 
can, he clapped the lid on her kettle with a 
snap and he handed it back over the palings 
without a single word. He was turning away 
before he spoke. 

“Hired girl’s left, hasn’t she?” he asked, 
showing that he could put two and two 
together for himself. 

Betsy nodded. She was beginning to like 
his frank face and nice wavy hair. She might 




A Satisfactory Sunday 


51 


have answered had not Mac sauntered out to 
join her, snapping at imaginary flies as he 
came. The boy’s quick eyes caught him up. 

“Dog any good?” he inquired, with the 
frown of a connoisseur. 

Betsy resented the tone “Of course he is,” 
she returned loftily. “He’s a very good dog.” 

“Humph, he don’t look like he’s got much 
pedigree,” criticised the expert. He bent 
over the fence and put a stubby hand on Mac’s 
shaggy head, turning the keen hairy face up 
toward his own. 

Mac did i^ot move a muscle, but gazed 
sadly at him, lifting his upper lip in a long 
hissing sigh. Betsy knew what that meant 
and she was glad Mac had shown so much 
self-respect. The boy evidently knew, too, 
for he carelessly withdrew his hand from the 
yellow head. 

“Well, I must be going,” he said lightly. 
“Got a lot to do yet.” At the wagon wheels 
he turned to nod at Mac. “He’s a good one, 
all right. I bet he can chase cats, can’t he?” 

Mac’s habit of chasing anything with fur 
on it was a source of anguish to Betsy and she 
hated to confess his ability in that line. The 



52 


Betsy Hale 


boy eyed her intolerantly as she reluctantly 
admitted that Mac couldn’t bear the sight 
of a cat. 

“ You’re the real girly sort, aren’t you,” 
I love little kitty” and all that sort of stuff. 
You ain’t no dog owner. You ought to let 
me have him a while. I'd train him right.” 
He cocked his hat aggravatingly and stuck 
one foot on the wagon step ready to mount. 
“Better let me give old Sport a lesson in 
chasing rats,” he teased. 

Betsy despised him. She flushed hotly. 

“His name isn’t Sport,” was the most crush¬ 
ing retort she could find. “It’s MacCallum 
More because he came from Aryedale. We 
call him Mac for short.” 

The boy underwent the most astonishing 
change. He flung himself into the seat, 
sitting up very straight, and he whisked his 
cap into the semblance of a Highland bonnet. 

“And is it the noble Argyle hi’sel’?” he 
asked with a Highland twist to his tongue. 
“Troth, he comes tae the richt place when he 
comes to the Wee Comer, as Maister Rabbie 
Gun used to ca’ the bit housie yonder.” 

Betsy fairly stared. Here was someone 
quite worth while. 



A Satisfactory Sunday 


53 


“Oh, was Mr. Gun-a Scotchman?” she 
cried. “And did he call this place that 
lovely Scotchy name? Tell me again, please.” 

He rolled it out with great unction, enjoy¬ 
ing her admiration of him and it. “The 
TV ee Bit Corner of the Brae—that was what 
he named it,” he assured her in plain English. 
“He called it the Wee Comer for short.” 

“Oh, how sweet,” she began, and then 
sudden misgiving took her. “You aren’t 
just pretending?” she flashed. “That would 
be horridly mean!” 

He showed her such an indignant face that 
she knew she could believe him. 

“Everybody knows Mr. Gun was Scotch,” 
he flung at her. “You ask anyone!” 

And then he drove off with a clatter, not 
even glancing at her where she stood remorse¬ 
ful and ashamed of her doubts, carefully 
holding her milk kettle while MacCallum More 
sniffed at it suggestively. The boy was half¬ 
way up the long hill towards the west when 
Betsy stirred. She smiled as she looked about 
her. She had found a treasure. She looked 
at the dark pines, at the triangle of grass 
plot with its arbor and white palings and at 






54 


BetsjTHale 


the nestling white house, all tucked away in 
the corner of the big, sweeping uplift of the 
wide field. 

“The Wee Corner,” she repeated softly. 
“How sweet! It’s like getting a present to 
find such a dear name, all ready made for it.” 

She went indoors, more pleased with every¬ 
thing and feeling capable of working wonders. 
The kettle was singing and the coffee was to be 
made, but even this problem did not dismay 
her, for she knew the cook book was in the 
table drawer and she relied on it with a serene 
faith that was not disappointed. Though 
the directions were puzzling, she managed it 
very well. Scrambled eggs and toast were 
easy enough after that, and as a special treat 
she opened a jar of the very best marmalade. 
And then she called her mother, feeling, oh, 
so grown up and important. 

Mrs. Hale came down quickly, and when 
she saw the cheerful breakfast table and 
Betsy standing by the chair, ready to seat her, 
she gave a little pleased cry. 

“How did you manage it, my dear?” she 
said admiringly. “I was quaking in my boots 
up-stairs for fear you had come to grief. 



A Satisfactory Sunday 


55 


everything was so quiet down her, and 
everything’s as well done as though we had 
any number of Minnies.” 

Betsy beamed at the praise, but was true 
to her character as cook. “Oh, please sit 
down. Mother,” she begged. “The eggs will 
be cold.” And when Mrs. Hale had taken 
her place and Betsy had slipped into her own 
chair, she kept an anxious eye on the coffee 
pot. “I’m not sure about the coffee,” she 
admitted. “It was hard to make so little. 
The cook book expected one to make quarts.” 

“It’s the best I ever had,” declared Mrs. 
Hale warmly. “You’ll have to show me 
how to make it, my dear.” 

Betsy’s last fear fled and she gave herself 
up to enjoyment. She insisted on helping her 
mother plentifully and she really put on a 
few airs. She was very new to the business, 
you see. 

“ It’s fun to keep house,” she said with that 
quirk of her brown head that was so unanswer¬ 
able, and her mother agreed heartily. 

And it was fun to watch her mother, 
who wanted to banish her from the kitchen 
but who had to call her every other minute 



56 


Betsy Hale 


to know where things were; it was fun to 
watch her after they had finished their meal, 
washing the dishes and tidying the kitchen, 
while Betsy emptied the ashes from the big 
dining-room heater, dusted the hearth, and 
laid a new fire in the sitting-room ready to 
fight when needed. The sight of the color 
in her mother’s cheeks made her cry out. 

“Oh, Mother, you’re a lovely pink like 
the sunrise this morning!” she said. “I’m 
glad we’re going to church, for all the people 
can see how pretty you are!” 

“Mercy on us” Mrs. Hale laughed, 
blushing very much. “You’ll make me 
dreadfully conceited if you say such things. 
It’s no way for the cook to be apeaking to me, 
either. I’ll have to reduce your wages for 
impertinence.” 

Betsy laughed, too, and looked proudly at 
her. “There won’t be anyone half so sweet 
as you in the whole church—see if there is!” 
she persisted, as she hurried off to get ready. 

She was happier than she had been for a 
long time, and even the bed-making, which 
was a daily task, seemed different today.* 
She put on her dark blue velvet Tam with 



A Satisfactory Sunday 


57 


the red rose under its rim, and her blue velvet 
coat. Both were rather shabby, but she 
looked at them with satisfaction. Her fore¬ 
head puckered as she surveyed herself critically 
in the old mirror over her bureau. 

“I’ll never be pretty like Mother,” she 
said with a decided shake of her head. “If 
it weren’t for my velvets I’d be a poor 
enough sight. It’s a mercy I haven’t grown 
fast, or I’d have had to take to that everyday 
coat—it’s big enough for two but I’m per¬ 
fectly hideous in it. I shouldn’t want people 
to hate me the first time I go to church.” 

She rubbed the velvet with a caressing 
hand as she went down to join her mother, 
and she kept patting it as though it were a 
talisman to make her find favor in the eyes 
of others, all the way to church, for she was 
at heart rather timid and this first contact 
with village life loomed large to her. 

Their way to church did not lay through the 
village, for the little stone church was on the 
high road just over the brow of the hill and 
beyond the beech wood copse, so that Betsy 
had little chance of seeing much of the village 
that morning. She was quite content, how- 



58 


Betsy Hale 


ever, for her mind was full of hope and expec¬ 
tation. There would be people there in the 
church, and people were the breath of Sally’s 
nostrils—after her mother and her own day¬ 
dreams. 

They went into the little vestibule with 
two or three other people who came up at 
the moment, and Betsy, after examining them 
closely, could not forbear an aside to her 
mother. 

“They aren’t a bit different, you see,” she 
whispered. “They’re just like other people— 
except their clothes.” 

Her mother did not answer, for she was 
leading the way to an unoccupied seat near 
the back of the church, and after that, of 
course, there could be no more comments. 
Betsy made good use of her eyes for the first 
moment, but she was abashed by the stare 
which met hers and she soon gave all her 
attention to the service. Everyone in the 
church seemed to be staring at her. It was 
very disappointing, when she had expected 
to do all the staring herself. 

She listened gravely to the sermon, liking 
the minister’s kind, serious face, and she 




A Satisfactory Sunday 


59 


became so partial before tlie sermon had gone 
half-way that she was quite indignant with 
an old gentleman in a pepper-and-salt suit at 
the pew-end because she caught him nodding. 

This took her attention from the minister 
and she was soon glancing about her with 
eager interest, for she found that all the 
people were now intent on the discourse and 
seemed to have forgotten to stare at the 
newcomers. 

Sitting decorously two pews ahead she rec¬ 
ognized her acquaintance of the morning, the 
milk boy. He had on a dark suit, a smooth 
white collar, and his dark hair shone with 
brushing. Betsy felt more at home at 
once. She looked about with greater freedom. 
A fair-haired, placid girl in the opposite pew 
smiled at her, and Betsy smiled back, thinking, 
with a happy flush, that this must be Mrs. 
Worthington’s daughter, who was to take 
her to the Friday Sewing Class. 

After that she found the service very short, 
and when Mrs. Hale led the way out of the 
pew at the close of the session, Betsy had 
forgotten the milk boy in her interest in the 
girl, who was behind her in the crowded main 



60 


Betsy Hale 


aisle. He seemed to have forgotten her exis¬ 
tence, as he stalked past her in the coolest 
fashion, not even glancing at her, and stopped 
to shake hands with the minister at the door— 
a proceeding that made Betsy shake her head 
impatiently. Though she had forgotten him 
for the moment, she was not prepared to be 
completely ignored. 

“Do you know Philip Meade?” asked a 
soft voice. 

Betsy turned to see the fair, placid girl at her 
elbow. She spoke in a shy, gentle tone, as 
if she were a little diffident, though she was 
really always at her ease. She did not wait 
for an answer, as they moved with the others 
toward the door. “Mother says I’m to bring 
you to Sewing Class,” she went on, in her 
soft tones. “You’ll have to bring something 
to sew, you know.” 

“Oh, must I?” asked Betsy, with visions 
of disaster. “But I can’t make dresses. I’d 
better not come.” 

The girl laughed gently. “We don’t make 
dresses till we’ve learned everything else,” 
she explained. “And then we make only 
gingham dresses for the poorhouse. We just 



A Satisfactory Sunday 


61 


sew seams, and hem dishclothes and that sort 
thing.” 

“Oh, I’m so glad,” said Betsy, much 
relieved. “I’d love to learn to sew, but I’d 
never want to make poorhouse dresses. I’d 
be so sorry for them.” 

“Sorry?” inquired the other with a puzzled 
expression. “Sorry—for just dresses?” 

Betsy nodded. “To be shut up in a poor- 
house, you know,” she replied with sudden 
friendliness. “I’d hate to make things to 
end in unhappiness like that.” 

The other looked at her with a look of 
admiration on her pretty placid face. “ You’re 
pretty tender-hearted, aren’t you?” she com¬ 
mented. “Feeling that way about just— 
things 

Betsy was not used to public mention of her 
heart and she blushed. “I don’t know,” she 
stammered, and then with relief, she added, 
“There’s Mother looking for me. I’ll have 
to hurry. Good-bye. I hope you’ll come 
Friday.” 

She had passed the vestibule and was on the 
top step before the slower girl could halt her. 
“Don’t forget to have some sewing,” she 



62 


Betsy Hale 


warned. “Mrs. Fox likes us to start on 
towels. Don’t forget!” 

Betsy nodded and then hurried off to join 
her mother at the gate. She was thinking, 
as she and her mother passed out of the church 
yard, what a dear the girl was, and she was 
eager to talk over the whole matter, the 
service, the minister and the people, with 
her mother according to their custom. But 
Mrs. Hale was very silent and her eyes 
had a far-away expression which Betsy knew 
of old. 

“You’re thinking about your writing, aren’t 
you, Mother?” she asked. 

Mrs. Hale smiled absently. “I’d rather 
you didn’t talk, dearie,” she answered gently, 
walking on so rapidly that Betsy had to hurry 
to keep up with her. 

Betsy knew that was the end of any con¬ 
fidences on her part, and she adjusted herself 
to it with the ease of long practice. 

“Mayn’t I begin to get dinner while you 
get it in shape?” she asked. “You could 
get it started and then we’d have dinner 
together and do the dishes nice and sociable.” 

The suggestion was alluring to Mrs. Hale, 



A Satisfactory Sunday 


63 


but she shook her head. “It is not fair to 
tax you so much all at once,” she said firmly. 
“You will be tired-” 

Betsy interrupted eagerly. “Indeed, I’m 
fearfully strong,” she protested. “And I’d 
love to do it. Please let me, Mother. You 
know you’ll forget what you want to write 
if you wait till after dinner.” 

This was so true that Mrs. Hale hesitated 
and Betsy, seeing her advantage, begged so 
hard that her mother finally consented. “ But 
I will attend to the dishes while you go for 
a long walk in the sunshine,” she said, as 
they reached their own gate. “You mustn’t 
stay indoors a moment after you have eaten 
your dinner.” 

Betsy was quite satisfied with this arrange¬ 
ment and she flew up-stairs to take off her 
precious velvets in high good humor. She 
knew she could manage the dinner by herself 
and she intended to surprise her mother with 
her promptness. 

It took her much longer, however, to get 
the meal than it had taken the experienced 
Minnie, but at last she had it on the table 
with the potatoes done to a turn and the 




64 


Betsy Hale 


steak just as you would have it—in spite of 
a fall on the coals. With the dessert, which 
she set out on the side table, it made a very 
creditable meal for a beginner. She was 
astonished to hear the clock striking two as 
she went up to her mother’s door. 

“ Mother won’t mind, though,” she thought. 
“She’s had that much more time to write. 
She’ll be hungrier, too.” 

It was a bitter disappointment to have her 
mother barely look up from the clicking 
machine and say in a tone which meant 
obedience without protest, “Go have your 
dinner, my dear. Leave something in the 
oven for me, and go out at once for your walk. 
Keep to the highway and be back before four.” 

Then she went back to the clicking keys, 
and Betsy, with a sigh, went down-stairs to 
the uncongenial task of dining by herself, on 
the steak and potatoes, custard and cake she 
had prepared so gayly. It was a dull business 
after all her hopes, and she tried to vary it 
by eating them in layers, though she did not 
particularly relish them that way. 

“I’d hate to be a hermit,” she thought, as 
she finished. “It takes the taste out of food 
to have to eat it by yourself.” 



A Satisfactory Sunday 


65 


She put the soiled dishes in the sink and her 
mother’s dinner in the oven, and then she 
put on her every-day coat and hat and 
started off, shutting up the reluctant Mac in 
the shed to secure his protection to her absent- 
minded mother. 

“Mother’d never know if the house were 
carried off, so long as she was at the type¬ 
writer,” she thought, with a fond smile for 
the weaknesses of her gifted mother. “Mac’s 
a good watch dog, though, and no one can 
even come in the gate without he barks like 
mad.” 

She glanced up at her mother’s windows as 
she went around the house, but as she had 
not expected to see anything, she was not 
disappointed. “She’ll be through long before 
I get back, though,” she consoled herself. 
“She never writes so very long now.” 

She shut the gate carefully after her, and 
then she gave herself up to the pleasures in 
store for her. 

“I’ll walk slowly through the village. I 
want to tell Mother every scrap I see. It’s 
such fun to talk things over with her.” 

She turned her face toward the village and, 


5 



66 


Betsy Hale 


stepping lightly and eagerly, she began her 
walk. 

She passed the beech grove and the church 
and the barn-like frame building with the 
multicolored signs advertising so many various 
cut-plug tobaccos that Betsy thought it a 
tobacco warehouse until she saw near the door 
a small board with the words “Knights of 
the Golden Cuckoo” painted in very black 
letters on it, and then she nodded, recalling 
that the minister had announced that the 
fair to be given for the benefit of the Aid 
Society would be held in the Lodge Hall. 
It took on a greater interest for her, and she 
looked at it as she walked slowly past. 

“It’s pretty big,” she thought. “They 
must be going to have a large fair. I wonder 
if we will go?” 

When she turned the corner by the cross¬ 
roads she found the long, rambling village 
street empty in the sunshine. There was 
absolutely no one in sight as she strolled along, 
trying to prolong her walk in hope of some one 
appearing. 

“I wish I could go pull all the bells, just to 
see what sort of people live in the houses,” 



A Satisfactory Sunday 


67, 


she said rebelliously. “I never saw such a 
quiet place in all my life.” 

She tried to imagine what the inmates of the 
comfortable houses were like, judging from 
the houses themselves. But it was dull 
work, piecing them out by herself, and she 
soon gave it up and passed the white house 
beyond the store, where she was sure Worth¬ 
ingtons lived, without lingering for a longer 
look at its shining windows and wide porches. 

The wind was rising as she came out on the 
open road, and the water in the brook beneath 
the bridge was ruffled into tiny waves. It 
was growing cold, too, so instead of stopping 
to watch the whirling water, Betsy went 
briskly on till she gained the next hill. 

The wind blew harder here, and her hair 
whipped about her face so that she had to 
walk backward most of the time. This was 
very entertaining, since it gave a spice of 
adventure to her rather prosy walk. You 
never know what may happen to you when 
you are walking backward, with your eyes 
more or less filled with long brown hair. 

“I might step into a puddle like Dr. 
Foster,” she thought, beginning to enjoy 



68 


Betsy Hale 


herself greatly. “Or I might walk off a 
precipice and be picked up from the rocks 
a thousand feet below, mangled and-” 

Bang! 

A genuine Irish squeal rent the air. Betsy 
had bumped into something with all her 
force and was staggering from the shock. 

Her heart stood still as she heard the 
shriek and she whisked about with her hair 
quite blinding her, and, clutching at the 
object that was tottering from her assault, 
she cried out remorsefully: “Oh, I’m so 
sorry! It was the wind in my hair. I didn’t 
mean-” 

And then the fickle wind whipped the 
strands of hair from her eyes, and she saw that 
she was clutching a wicker baby-coach while 
a stout, red-faced Irish woman, who had 
evidently been stooping to her shoe-tie, laid 
a helping hand on the other side. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she repeated, but the 
Irish woman was beaming on her. 

“Indeed, then it’s yerself that’s the quick 
one,” she said in a rich brogue. “And me 
that set on me shoe-string that I neglected the 
precious things entirely, with the wind 





A Satisfactory Sunday 


69 


a-screamin’ in the ears of me, and the shawl 
a-blowin’ over the eyes of me. Sure, it’s 
lucky you was nimble, for yourself it was 
that saved them.” 

“ But I bumped into them,” explained Betsy 
grateful for so much favor. “I was walking 
backward to get the hair out of my eyes— 
it’s so blindy, you know—and I went blang 
into the coach.” 

“Never mind whose fault it was, machree,” 
returned her new friend, amiably. “It was 
breakable freight fer me to be a-leavin’ on 
this windy highway at all, at all, while I 
laced me good-for-nothin’ shoe.” Seeing that 
Betsy glanced rather curiously at the white 
cloth within the coach, she added with a 
broad smile: “I do be a-takin’ them to Mr. 
Dodson at the ho- tel, fer his christenin’ party 
tonight, and mighty fine pies they are, savin’ 
the baker of them—which is me.” 

“Pies?” broke in Betsy with a light shining 
in her eyes. “Did you make them? Can 
you make bread? Good bread—not the wet, 
lumpy sort?” 

“Sure I can that,” returned the woman 
proudly. “There ain’t a fitter loaf to be 



70 


Betsy Hale 


found in four counties than these two hands 
can make, as Mrs. Dodson will be tellin’ ye 
anny day ye ask her. Is it bread ye want?” 

Betsy flushed. She had not meant to appear 
as a buyer. 

“Oh, no, I didn’t want any bread just now,” 
she said hurriedly. “I only thought perhaps 
you might teach me how to make it. We’re 
keeping house, and I want to learn a lot all at 
once. And cook books are so confusing— 
‘flavor to taste’ and ‘moderate oven’ and 
all that-” 

“Do you mean to tell me,” interrupted the 
pie-maker with an amazed look, “that a 
mere babby like you is goin’ in fer cookery? 
You ain’t kiddin’ me? Honest?” 

Betsy was most emphatic. “Indeed and 
indeed I want to learn,” she protested. 
“Mother and I are going to keep house, and 
I want to surprise her. Would you charge 
very much to teach me how to make bread?” 
She looked anxiously at the woman. 

“Teach you I will, and no mistake!” cried 
the owner of the wicker coach. “ Tis the 
blessed angels’ own wurk to learn a gur-rl 
in the ways of a house. Do you wait fer me 




A Satisfactory Sunday 


71 


here till I’ve got shut of me pies, and then if 
you’ll be steppin’ with me to that there 
abode,” nodding to a neat little house nearby, 
‘‘I’ll be a-settin’ me bread for the mom’s 
bakin’ in about tin minutes, aistern time, and 
you’re as welcome as the winds to larn it.” 

This was so much better than Betsy 
could have hoped that she was only too 
thankful to wait, walking up and down on 
the windy highway till the woman appeared 
with the empty carriage. Betsy dropped into 
step as she toiled up the rough little lane that 
led to her cottage, and though their pace was 
slow, their friendship grew amazingly. 

Mrs. Delaney, with the delicacy that the 
poor often show, asked no questions, but she 
poured out a flood of information as to 
cookery and her own capacities as a cook and 
a wife and mother that was very illuminating. 
Betsy learned she had a son Jimmy at the 
public school in the village. 

“A fair lad fer his books, when ye can lure 
him to them,” declared his mother, shaking 
her head. “A grand scholard, but mischeevi- 
ous, and always playin’ the truant. It’s 
l’yer I’m hopin’ to make him some fine day, 
if he’ll but stick to his books.” 




72 


Betsy Hale 


Betsy understood and approved. “A law¬ 
yer can be a judge, too, if he’s very clever,” 
she ventured. 

“Ah, it’s a fine perfession,” Mrs. Delaney 
pronounced. “A l’yer is a fine man. No 
tools required, neither—nawthin’ but a bit of 
an office and some thriflin’ pens and paper 
betimes.” 

She seemed less hopeful about Mr. Delaney, 
though Betsy got a sort of religious flavor from 
her description of him. “He’s as the Lord 
made him—the man,” said his wife piously. 
“As the good Lord made him, now workin’ 
a spell and now restin’ his rheumatiz. But 
here we are at the door-stone, and it’s wel¬ 
come you must be. Come in by and shut 
the door from the wind, for it’s cruel nippin’, 
and the bread will take the warmer water 
by that same token.” 

Betsy did not understand these last words 
until the flour and yeast and other ingredients 
for setting the sponge were set out on Mrs. 
Delaney’s clean table, and the mixing process 
began. 

“You see, machree, if the weather’s a bit 
nippy, ye make the water warm,” explained 




A Satisfactory Sunday 


73 


the teacher. “The colder the weather, the 
warmer ye put it in, or the dough won’t rise 
none fer you. There now, the salt and the 
yeast’s in and the stuff’s mixed and done fer. 
I’ll put a clean cloth over it, and set it by the 
fire—but not too close—and in the morn’s 
morn it’ll be ready to be nedd out and set to 
rise again ferninst the bakin’.” 

Betsy was disappointed to find it so simple 
a problem. “Why, I could to that myself,” 
she said. “That isn’t hard to do.” 

“Could ye now?” inquired Mrs. Delaney 
with^the easy admiration of the good-natured 
Irish. “And then its meself as will lend ye 
the loan of some yeast and ye can be tryin’ it. 
Set yer sponge this night as ye’ve seen me 
do, and come over the mom fer the rest of 
yer lesson.” 

She measured out a cupful of the foamy 
yeast, covered it with a tight tin lid, and 
Betsy, concealing it carefully in her deep 
pocket, walked sedately off down the rough 
lane, waving a friendly farewell at the turn 
of the road. 

“I’ve begun,” she exulted. “I’ve begun 
sooner than I thought I could. Oh, what fun 
it is to keep house!” 





74 


Betsy Hale 


She got in with her treasure unseen, for her 
mother, exhausted and happy, was finishing 
the last morsel of her belated dinner in the 
dining-room and Betsy had a chance to slip 
the small cup into the closet before she went 
in to have the promised talk. She hoped her 
mother would not be too curious, for she felt 
that her visit to the Delaneys must be a 
secret until that delightful moment when she 
could hand her a loaf of perfect bread, saying 
carelessly, “This is my last baking—I wish 
you would try it.” 

Mrs. Hale, however, was full of another 
subject. She had been looking through the 
window as she ate, and she had found the old 
grape arbor full of delightful possibilities. 
“If we stay here, my dear, and if my—that is, 
if anything happens to bring us in a lot of 
money, I shall have that nice old arbor reno¬ 
vated. With seats and a rough table in it, 
it would be an ideal spot for breakfast on a 
summer morning.” 

Betsy easily dropped into this sort of plan¬ 
ning, and they went out together, in spite of 
the nipping wind, and measured and planned, 
quite as though they were to have the work 



A Satisfactory Sunday 


75 


done tomorrow. Altogether they passed a 
pleasant evening, what with getting a light 
supper and making the house neat and trim 
again before going to bed. Mac disappeared 
just before they were ready to go up-stairs, 
and Betsy, remembering the bread making, 
eagerly urged her mother to allow her to wait 
for him. 

“ He’ll be here in a minute/’ she declared. 
“He always comes in by this time.” 

Mrs. Hale, who was very tired, made a 
compromise. “I’ll go up and get out our 
fresh things, and if he’s not in by that time. 
I’ll come down again,” she said, and Betsy 
had to be content with this brief respite. 

How she flew to the kitchen! She got out 
the materials with shaking fingers, seized the 
yeast from its hiding place, and with an 
anxious glance at the kitchen thermometer, 
which Mr. Gun had left, she took the kettle 
from the stove. 

“The colder the weather, the warmer the 
water,” she said. “Well, it’s getting colder 
all the time. I’ll make it good and hot, so 
there’ll be no mistake.” 

She poured the almost boiling water into 



76 


Betsy Hale 


the flour, and was rather disturbed by the 
queer, translucent look of the dough. She 
had no time to spend in idle speculation, 
though, for Mac was whining at the door, and 
she could hear her mother’s step on the stair. 
Hastily wrapping a cloth about the pan, she 
stood it on the shelf above the stove, and, 
flying to the door, she brought the dog into 
the house, blowing out the light as she hurried 
him through the kitchen. 

She had him on his bed in the lower hall 
and was snapping his chain when her mother 
reached the landing. “It’s all right, Mother,” 
she said hastily. “I’ve put out the lights 
and you don’t need to come down.” 

She was very thankful that she had made 
her escape, and she went up to her room, 
thinking of nothing save the venture she was 
embarked on. 

“I don’t care if I didn’t see a soul,” she 
said, thinking of her walk. “I’d be willing 
to be a perfect hermit if I can learn to keep 
house before the time is up. I wish it were 
morning. I’m so crazy to see my bread 
dough that I can hardly wait!” 



CHAPTER IV 


The Coffee Man 


THOUGH it was Mrs. Hale’s turn 



to get breakfast, Betsy was down a 


^ full half hour before her. She hurried 
through the darkened rooms, not stopping 
to open the shutters nor to release Mac from 
his chain, so eager was she to see how her 
bread had come on. 

“I do hope it hasn’t raised so high it’s 
running over the pan,” she thought, as she 
hurried through the dining-room. “ Mother’d 
be sure to see it then and I want to surprise 


The kitchen was rather dark, and she 
glanced anxiously toward the stove, but 
though the white-wrapped bundle on the shelf 
looked very large and puffy to her excited 
eyes, she could see even by that dim light 
that the dough had not run over. 

“Thank goodness, it’s stayed inside the 
pan, anyway,” she breathed in relief. 


( 77 ) 


78 


Betsy Hale 


As she unwound the cloth and raised the 
lid, a blank look came on her face, and she 
stopped, peering closer. 

“Oh, dear! It looks very queer,” she said 
in dismay, staring at the sticky, jelly-like mass 
that lay in the bottom of the pan. “ It looks 
very, very queer. I never thought it would 
look like that.” 

She felt instinctively that something was 
wrong, though she had never seen raised 
dough before. Tears rose hotly to her eyes, 
smarting sharply, but that good old New 
England blood—the gift from her father— 
came to her aid, and the spirit of the pioneers 
within her rose up in its might. 

“It must have been too cool for it here,” 
she said with a quirk of her head. “The 
kitchen is pretty cold when the fire’s down. 
I’ll keep it good and warm, and it’s sure to 
come up. I’ll wait till it’s half-way to the 
top of the pan, and then I’ll run over to Mrs. 
Delaney’s and see what’s to be done next.” 

Her lips were very firm as she replaced the 
lid, wound the cloth about the bowl and 
stooping, put it under the stove in a place 
where it could not be seen and yet could be 
very warm. 



The Coffee Man 


79 


“There you’ll stay till you come up good 
and high,” she said emphatically. “There’s 
to be no nonsense about it.” 

She marched about, opening the shutters, 
attending to the heater in the dining-room, 
even playing a bit with Mac when he was 
roused from his bed, but never a glance did 
she cast toward the spot funder the stove 
where the bowl was. She had an unconfessed 
feeling that if it were snubbed good and hard 
it might come to terms the sooner. 

The supply of coal was exhausted and she 
took the coal bucket to the shed, hoping to 
have it filled and the stove replenished 
before her mother came down. Though the 
bucket was many sizes too large for her, but 
she set her teeth and took up the handle, 
after she had filled it to the brim. 

“Here, you drop that! I’ll take it in for 
you,” said a cheerful voice, and Betsy was 
good-naturedly pushed out of the way, as 
Philip Meade swung the heavy load with 
the ease of trained muscles. 

He was almost out of sight in a big blue 
sweater and he grinned sociably as he caught 
the handle from her grasp. Betsy’s pioneer 



80 


Betsy Hale 


blood was up, however, and she was not to be 
dictated to so easily. She kept her grasp on 
the handle. 

At the door, which was narrow, Betsy had 
to drop behind, and Philip stalked into the 
house, leaving the milk tin on the kitchen 
table, and, going into the dining-room as 
though familiar with the place, he filled the 
big heater with an easy sweep of the bucket, 
replaced the fids and went to the coal bin 
again. The next bucket he stood beside the 
kitchen stove. 

“You haven’t muscle enough for this sort 
of work,” he said, patronizing her kindly. 
“You’ll have to train if you’re going in for it.” 

Betsy was instantly on the defensive. “I 
have plenty of muscle for any thing I want to 
do,” she said loftily. “We aren’t going to 
lug coal buckets about, though. We’re going 
to have Jimmy Delaney do it for us.” It was 
the only name she had at hand. 

Philip whistled expressively. “You better 
keep your eye peeled, that’s all,” he warned 
her, with a compassion that was baffling to 
the outright Betsy. 

At the shed door he halted. “ Where’s 
your father?” he asked, sociably. 











“there!'' iie breathed 



r 


The Coffee Man 


81 


Betsy was taken aback by the sudden ques¬ 
tion. He—died,” she faltered. 

Philip flushed painfully, but all he said 
was, “ Want to see a woodchuck hole?” and 
Betsy accepted his apology with equal brev¬ 
ity. She nodded eagerly. 

“ Come along and don’t gabble,” he warned, 
and he led the way across the road to the 
edge of the thicket, near some big rocks, 
where they noiselessly crouched as he pointed. 
“ There!” he breathed. 

Betsy saw only a fluffy lump of yellow- 
gray fur at the mouth of a hole, but she 
smiled as she looked, for she felt that the 
woodchuck was the visible emblem of a new 
friendship, and she thought happily, “He’s 
really going to be perfectly splendid.” 

She did not care in the least when the furry 
ball rolled into the hole and was lost to sight. 
She had found something that was better 
than any woodchuck. She had found a friend. 

After they had gone back to the road and 
he was scrambling into his wagon, she looked 
up to him with shining eyes. “I’ve a book 
with all those animals in it. I’ll loan it to 
you if you like.” 


6 




82 


Betsy Hale 


He accepted with hearty promptness that 
augured well for the future, and then drove 
clattering off. 

“ He’s perfectly splendid,” said Betsy, and 
she went gaily into the house. 

It was not until after breakfast, when Mrs. 
Hale had gone up to her writing desk that 
she remembered the bread. 

It was just the same sticky mass as 
ever. 

Betsy stared at it a moment and then she 
acted. Snatching up her soft felt hat and 
Struggling into her big coat, she tucked the 
bowl, which was not a large one, under her 
arm and marched out as fast as her legs 
could carry her. “I won’t wait another 
instant for the silly thing.” she breathed. 

She hurried through the village and over 
the bridge and up the hill to the cottage, not 
looking to the right or left. She knocked and 
entered almost at the same moment, and she 
set the bundle before Mrs. Delaney, who was 
at her kneading board, and who took her 
coming as quite a matter of course, until she 
saw the bundle, when she opened her eyes as 
wide as nature "allowed her. 



The Coffee Man 


83 


“And pwhat’s this?” she asked. “You 
haven’t been and gone and done yer bakin’ 
this time o’day?” 

Betsy for answer jerked the covers from her 
package, and disclosed, not the brown, warm 
loaf that Mrs. Delaney spoke of, but the 
limp soggy mass of unrisen dough. She set 
her lips as her new friend gave one look at 
the contents and then began to shake her 
head, chuckling in spite of herself. 

“Ah, it’s the flour-paste ye’v been a-makin’, 
like the paper-hanger men do use,” explained 
Mrs. Delaney, suppressing her mirth as best 
she could at the sight of Betsy’s stricken face. 
“ Ye’v put the boilin’ wather into it, machree, 
or I’m a sinner. It’s gran’ paste, but it’s 
niver mortial bread.” 

Betsy stared speechless at the wretched 
mess. It was a great blow to find that it had 
been her own fault. She hated bread-making 
with sudden fervor, but the lump in her 
throat would not allow of speech. 

Mrs. Delaney patted her shoulders sooth¬ 
ingly. “Ah, and don’t take on about such a 
thriflin’ occurrence,” she said kindly. “It’s 
me own fault fer not introjuicin’ ye to the 



84 


Betsy Hale 


facts of the case—which is these. Flour and 
warrum wather, and the risin’, makes bread 
sponge. Flour and boilin’ wather makes 
paste—risin’ or no risin’. You’ll remember 
that now.” 

Betsy gulped and then flung up her head 
bravely. It was her second defeat that 
morning, but she was not yet conquered. 

“I’ll never learn to make bread, thank you, 
Mrs. Delaney,” she said firmly. “I’m very 
much obliged to you, but it’s too—too— 
complicated. I shouldn’t know how to fix 
the stove or anything. I’ll stick to the 
easier things, I think.” 

Mrs. Delaney seemed genuinely dis¬ 
appointed, but she had to agree. She offered 
to teach Betsy anything else she wished to 
learn, and they parted very amiably, the 
more so thatTBetsy, as she was leaving, recalled 
the coal problem and secured a promise of 
Jimmy’s services in that department, provided 
her mother desired him. 

The clouds were dropping lower as Betsy 
left the cottage and the mist had begun to 
thicken into a chill drizzle as she came to the 
bridge. She stopped long enough, however. 





The Coffee Man 


85 


to dump the contents of her bowl into the 
gray ruffled waters of the brook. She watched 
it splash into the current with a limp flop! 
and she nodded emphatically as she saw it 
sink. 

“That’s the end of you” she said, with some 
relief; and she tucked the empty bowl under 
her arm and hurried toward home, feeling 
that she had met and vanquished her disap¬ 
pointment. 

There are days in every year that can defeat 
the strongest spirit. There are battlefields 
where, no matter now gallant is the defense, 
defeat is certain. Betsy found this to be one 
of those days, and all her battles became 
retreats. Everything went wrong. Mac 
had been missing since breakfast time and 
her mother took to her writing as soon as 
the morning work was done and Betsy had a 
lonely lunch, after an hour with lessons which 
would not come right. Her mother was 
abstracted and eager during the meal, and 
hardly replied to the few words that were 
spoken. 

The rain which had begun as a drizzle came 
down in quiet steady fashion—no gusts of 



86 


Betsy Hale 


wind, no flurry of large drops. Just plain 
rain. The earth grew water-soaked and 
dingier than ever. The sky was a level gray. 
The trees dripped and the pines waved their 
long arms disconsolately. The hills were 
hidden behind the mist. Nothing would ever 
be beautiful again, it seemed. 

Betsy at her dormer window, listening to 
the steady tapping of the drops from the 
eaves felt her spirits sinking to the gray level 
of the day. Yesterday seemed ages back in 
the past. She was tired of books. She was 
hungry for action, for people, and the mist 
curtain shut out everything in its monot¬ 
onous blank. She came to her last resort. 

“Til get Jemima,” she said. 

Rummaging in the depths of a packing box 
that stood back of a curtain in the corner 
under the eaves, she brought out an old faded 
doll, whose cheeks had long ago been kissed 
flat and whose face was seamed and worn with 
much loving. A very bald head and long 
baby dress proclaimed this treasure to be an 
infant, though its faded and spent look con¬ 
trasted strangely with its dress. 

Betsy’s face brightened as she lifted it out. 




The Coffee Man 


87 


Jemima had never failed her, and with the 
very touch of the yellowing baby dress there 
came new inspiration. 

“Til make you a dress, Jemmy/’ she said, 
recalling at the moment the Friday Sewing 
Class and its pleasures, and giving Jemima a 
tender kiss. “It’s been ages and ages since 
you had a new one, my dear, and you’ll like 
it tremendously, won’t you?” 

It was one of Jemima’s chief charms that 
she always agreed most heartily to anything 
Betsy might suggest. She opened her eyes 
very wide as Betsy held her up straight to 
hear this piece of news, and Betsy heard her 
say quite plainly: 

“Oh, indeed, I should like it perfectly 
tremendously! And you can make it so 
beautifully for me!” 

This was very gratifying to Betsy, who had 
never attempted any sort of dress-making 
before, and she got out a piece of pink linen 
which had been left from one of her pretty 
dresses, in that long-ago time when they 
were not devoted to Truth and Simplicity; 
and with the ardor of the untried, she laid 
scissors to it, intending to cut out a fluffy. 



88 


Betsy Hale 


ruffly dress of the most fetching kind for 
Jemima, who was now of an age to begin to 
enjoy the privileges of young ladyhood. 

She never cut the pink cloth, though, for 
a loud knocking on the back door caught her 
ear just as she was about to slash her way 
into it. It was a knock that was meant to be 
heard, and yet it was not a rude or alarming 
knock. Betsy flung down her materials and 
skipped down-stairs, feeling that she would 
not be detained long. 

Her mother’s typewriter was going at full 
speed as she passed the door of her room, so 
she sped on to the kitchen, and opened the 
door at once. 

A pleasant looking man with a very long 
thin nose and an order book in his gauntleted 
hand smiled at her briskly. Motor goggles 
added to his quaint cheerfulness. Betsy liked 
him at once. 

“Good afternoon,” he said with a sort of 
kindling look behind his goggles. “May I 
ask if you are supplied with coffee? We are 
introducing high-grade coffee at low-grade 
prices. Direct from manufactory to con¬ 
sumer. From our factory to you, by way of 




The Coffee Man 


89 


our motor van, and no middleman’s profits. 
Premiums of the best grade. Quality of all 
goods absolutely guaranteed. May I ask 
for a trial?” 

Betsy was delighted with him. She had not 
supposed anyone could be so homely and so 
agreeable. She was glad that their stock of 
coffee really was quite low, so that she need 
not trouble her busy mother. She closed 
and bolted the door, though, while she got 
out the little black pocketbook; for her 
morning’s experiences had made her more 
cautious than usual. 

The coffee man smiled as she opened the 
door again. His amiable, long-nosed face 
was quite a pleasure to look at as he laid the 
small package on the table and closed his 
order book. 

“I am glad to secure a customer,” he told 
her with kindly frankness. “ I am a newcomer 
in this neighborhood, and I hardly knew where 
to begin. Can you tell me where I should 
be likely to find other trade?” 

“Oh,” said Betsy, with instant sympathy. 
“ We’re newcomers, too. I hardly know any¬ 
one—not well enough for that, you know.” 




90 


Betsy Hale 


He was not disconcerted. He laid a little 
red book on the table as he turned to leave. 
“Our premium list,” he explained with his 
nice smile. “You may like to look it over.” 

After he was gone Betsy pounced on it 
eagerly. She did not understand what it 
meant at first, and it was not until she had 
examined the lists and studied the two red 
checks which the coffee man had laid on her 
purchase that she realized what the check 
and the list were for. 

Then her eyes grew round. “Why,” she 
breathed, “I can get mother’s birthday present 
that way. How sweet!” 

It was too happy an idea to risk detection, 
so she caught up the book and checks and 
hurried up-stairs with them. She wanted 
leisure to study the fascinating list and to 
select her gift. How could she dream of all 
that the coffee man’s brief visit that afternoon 
was to bring to her? 

Jemima looked on with interest as she was 
shown delectable lemonade sets, and attrac¬ 
tive berry dishes and she seemed to incline, as 
Betsy did, to the lemonade set as being 
serviceable all the year round. 



The Coffee Man 


91 


“Besides, the berry dishes are china and 
I do so long for glass—sparkling, shiny glass, 1 ” 
explained Betsy. “We haven’t much glass, 
you know.” 

Jemima settled the matter by falling head¬ 
foremost on the picture of the lemonade set. 
“Take it, by all means,” she agreed, which 
was most unselfish, considering that she 
never could hope to enjoy it herself. 

That was enough for the loving Betsy. 

“I’ll get the lemonade set or nothing,” 
she declared firmly. 

Jemima sat up and smiled as Betsy turned 
from the alluring pictures to the back of the 
pamphlet where the price-lists were printed ‘ 
in severe black ink. Oh, misery! what an 
amount of checks those coffee people did 
want for their goods. One hundred red 
checks was the number that these extortioners 
demanded for that lemonade set. 

Betsy groaned aloud, and Jemima fell back, 
closing her eyes. It was unsupportable. 

“And we will only take about a pound a 
week,” wailed Betsy. “Fifty weeks is almost 
a year. Oh, Jemmy dear, we’ll have to give 
it up. Mother’s birthday is in May, you 
know.” 



92 


Betsy Hale 


Jemima would have liked to suggest another 
gift, but Betsy was determined. “I won’t 
give her any snippy sugar spoon, or cup and 
saucer,” she said obstinately. “At least 
I won’t look at them now. I’d hate them too 
hard ever to get over it, and if I do have to 
come down to them, I’d rather wait a bit. 
I’ll try to hate the lemonade set, and then 
perhaps I’ll learn to like the other.” 

She flung the pamphlet into the packing 
box, and she took up Jemima again, hugging 
her close and rocking back and forth on her 
heels as she knelt before the window. The 
adorable picture of the ravishing lemonade 
set was very visible to her, though the little 
book lay in the big packing box; and she 
was murmuring her longing and sorrow into 
Jemima’s patient ear when a sound made her 
pause. 

She grew rather cold at the finger-tips and 
toes when she saw it was her mother’s light 
figure on the threshold. She had not told her 
mother of Jemima for over a year and she 
blushed to be found out like this. 

“Betsy, my dear,” began her mother, com¬ 
ing into the room. “I’ve been looking all 



The Coffee Man 


93 


over for you—” and then she stopped as she 
caught sight of the battered Jemmy. A 
perplexed expression came to her face and 
then she smiled. “Ah, yes, I see,” she said, 
and her eyes had what Betsy called her 
“writing look,” “duties beyond your years 
have forced you back to the relaxations of 
early childhood. Yes. That is natural. 
The law of compensation—” Her voice 
died into murmurs, of which Betsy ould catch 
the words, “The swing of the pendulum. 
Childish revivals,” and she knew that Mrs. 
Hale had almost forgotten her in the rush 
of thought that the little tableau had started 
in her active mind. 

Betsy gripped Jemima hard, but she said 
no word as her mother, turning to smile at 
her, left the room. The click of the typewriter 
began as soon as she had reached her room, 
and Betsy knew that both herself and Jemmy 
were forgotten in the flow of ideas they had 
been the means of starting. 

Betsy loved her mother with all her warm 
heart, and she was entirely convinced that, 
if she would explain her conference with 
Jemima to her mother, Mrs. Hale would 




94 


Betsy Hale 


understand with swift sympathy; but she 
could not bring herself to the explanation, 
and the supposition that she, a big girl of 
almost fourteen and a housekeeper too, could 
be merely playing with dolls, hurt her 
strangely. 

The disappointments of her day crowded 
on her. She had been stupid enough about 
the bread-making. And now she was acting 
the baby with an old doll. 

She rose with set lips. “Tm sorry, Jemmy 
darling, but it’s got to be,” she said resolutely. 
She grew rather white, but she never faltered. 

“I won’t be a baby any more,” she told 
Jemima with a catch in her voice. “I’m 
very old now, and I’ve got to learn to be 
grown-up.” 

When she laid Jemima in the wooden box 
which fitted her so well, she almost broke 
down, for as poor Jemmy closed her eyes and 
sank back on the white satin bed—Betsy’s 
treasured hair-ribbon—her patient look went 
to Betsy’s fond heart. 

She sobbed a little as she went past the 
door where the typewriter clicked steadily on, 
and her eyes were so dim she could scarcely 



The Coffee Man 


95 


find the kitchen shovel. She mastered her¬ 
self as she opened the umbrella and it was 
with a very steady step that she bore the 
wooden box out between the dripping bare 
lilac bushes, along the boardwalk with the 
cracks in it, past the barn and vegetable 
garden. She halted near a clump of rugged 
old boxwood, and, putting down her burden, 
began to dig. 

It was not that she loved Jemima less, but 
that she loved the Wee Corner more. 

“For you see, Jemmy darling, if I kept you 
and talked to you now and then, I’d never 
quite grow up,” she explained as she took the 
last fond look. “And oh, Jemmy dear, I’ve 
just got to grow up!” 

It was the memory of the prize she was 
struggling for—the hope of winning a real 
home, that kept her up after this. She 
knelt on the soggy sod for a whispered prayer, 
and although she could feel the mud squash 
through her stockings, she welcomed it as a 
tribute to her lost comrade. 

“The squashier the better” she murmured 
through her tears. “You’ve been such a 
comfortable person, Jemima Hale. 



96 


Betsy Hale 


And then, like King David of old, she dried 
her tears and set her face steadfastly toward 
her little world. 

“I’ve just got to grow up,” she said, as 
she took up the umbrella. “It would be 
perfectly hideous to leave the Wee Corner 
when we’ve just found it.” 



CHAPTER V 


What Betsy Found in the Cistern 

B ETSY went back to the house with the 
rain tapping monotonously on her um¬ 
brella and a flat sense of emptiness in 
her heart. 

“Life can hold no comfort for me now,” 
she thought, with a deep sigh. 

And then, as she carefully threaded her way 
along the rain-soaked boardwalk, avoiding 
the cracks with slow feet, she felt a beautiful 
spirit rising within her. It was the noble 
spirit of the martyr, who looks for nothing 
save trial and sacrifice. She quite over¬ 
looked the fact, as most of us do at such 
times, that her martyrdom was of her own 
making and that the world, which she was for¬ 
giving with such a fine Christian spirit, had 
given her of its poor best. 

What was there for her to do? She was 
looking about in search of some service to be 
performed when her eye fell on the face of the 

( 97 ) 


7 


98 


Betsy Hale 


old clock and she was surprised to catch its 
comfortable voice in the old rhythm: 

“It’s fun—it’s fun—it’s fun to keep house.” 

That reminded her of her first tea-tray— 
was it only last Saturday?—and she set about 
her task resolutely. It took her less time 
than she could have thought—so much her 
two days of practice had done for her. And 
when she had completed her work of love, she 
looked with something like pride on the fruit 
of her labors. Life was not really so dull as 
it might have been. 

“Jemima would like me to be happy,” she 
thought, following the path of all times and 
ages. “It isn’t that I’m forgetting her. I 
often left her alone in the big box for weeks 
and weeks.” 

Her face was rather sober, though, as she 
went to call her mother to tea. She had the 
sensation of having lost something useful and 
dependable, like a hand or a leg. She might 
hobble through the world to kingdoms of 
great splendor, but she would always hobble 
—that she knew. She amended her words. 
She said to herself as she knocked at the door 
where the steady clicking was still going on, 
“Life can never be the same to me.” 




What Betsy Found in the Cistern 99 


Mrs. Hale came out at her summons, 
leaving sheets scattered over floor and table 
and a perfect sheaf of clean, typewritten pages 
stacked on one corner of her wide window 
sill. She seemed glad to hear that there was 
tea, and she came down with Betsy rather 
more quietly than usual. 

Betsy thought it was the matter of the 
doll until she had a good look at her, and then 
she knew that her mother had forgotten the 
little episode as completely as if it had never 
been. The ideas it had suggested had wiped 
it clean from her mind. Which was as Betsy 
would have it. 

Tea was very pleasant. Mrs. Hale 
revived under the warmth and comfort and 
she was very nice about Jimmy Delaney and 
entirely agreed with Betsy that he must be 
sent for before tomorrow morning. It was 
decided to ask Mrs. Delaney to secure the 
services of a washerwoman for them, and 
various small household matters were dis¬ 
cussed at length. Altogether it was a 
happier hour than could have been expected, 
and Betsy was starting off on her errand to 
Delaney’s in a subdued, contented mind, when 


> 





100 


Betsy Hale 


an exclamation from her mother, who was 
beginning to wash up the tea things, halted 
her with one arm half in her coat. 

“It’s broken, I think,” Mrs. Hale said, 
in a perplexed way, looking reproachfully at 
the little green pump in the sink. “It won’t 
give out a drop of water, its handle is so 
queer and limp.” 

Betsy tested it with the air of an expert, but 
the handle clanked up and down in a very 
curious manner and no water would come, 
though she worked furiously. Then Mrs. 
Hale tried her hand again. It was hard 
to realize that water could not be got from 
the spout. “It’s always worked all right,” 
argued Betsy, puckering her brows. “We’ve 
done nothing to it.” 

Her mother looked more perplexed. “Per¬ 
haps I may have injured it without knowing 
it,” she suggested. “I am rather absent- 
minded at times, I am sure.” 

It did no good to argue about it, though, for 
the pump was plainly useless in its present 
state, and so, while Betsy went her errand to 
the cottage, Mrs. Hale went in search of 
expert help. The two umbrellas bobbed 




What Betsy Found in the Cistern 101 


together as far as the store and there they 
parted. Mrs. Hale felt sure the store¬ 
keeper, who was a very civil man, could tell 
her what to do. 

Betsy did her errand at the Delaney’s with 
more despatch than she had at first intended, 
and she hurried home just as her mother, 
followed by a man in a faded overcoat with 
bulging pockets and a dingy felt hat low over 
his eyes, turned into the gate. 

She caught up to them at the back door and 
saw that the tramp, when he was divested of 
his overcoat and huge goloshes—his hat 
remained firmly planted in its place—was not 
so bad after all. He had wiry side whiskers 
and a prominent Adam’s apple which slid 
up and down while he talked and which fas¬ 
cinated Betsy so completely that she hardly 
heard her mother’s explaination that this 
was Mr. Eleazer Simpson, the carpenter, who 
had been in the store when she had described 
the catastrophe of the pump, and who had 
kindly walked over to inspect and pronounce 
judgment. 

“To oblige,” remarked Mr. Simpson, with a 
sliding of the Adam’s apple that was remark- 




102 


Betsy Hale 


able. “It ain’t in my line, of course, but to 
oblige a neighbor.” 

After examining the pump, peering about 
at the pipes which went into the cistern 
beneath the kitchen floor, and going outside 
for a look at the outside pipes from the 
roof, he delivered his verdict. 

“Water’s give out,” he said. “Pipes to the 
roof leak like thunder. Can’t send no rain 
into the cistern.” 

He demonstrated the emptiness of the 
cistern by unscrewing a patch in the floor and 
lowering a candle tied to a string, showed 
them a dark, damp vault with a glimmer of 
black water at the bottom, a fearsome sight to 
Betsy who wondered how she could have trod 
the floor so many times in safety with this 
lurking danger beneath. Mr. Simpson almost 
laughed at her fears. 

“Ain’t no danger of tailin’ in, ’less the 
trap’s up, and it’s always down good and 
tight.” He screwed the bolts into place to 
illustrate. “A elyphant could dance a jig 
on that there floor now,” he concluded 
triumphantly, rising to face Mrs. Hale 
seriously again. 



What Betsy Found in the Cistern 103 


“I tell you what it is, Mrs.,” he said reflec¬ 
tively, rubbing his whiskers. “It ain’t in 
my line, but the rain’s put me off my job for 
a day or so. I’ll see that Jim North tends to 
the pipes—he’s blamed hard to get, but I’ll 
manage him. He’ll come soon’s as it stops 
rainin’. Meanwhile I’ll clean out that there 
cistern, and when your spring rains come in 
earnest, they’ll go in good and clean.” 

Mrs. Hale was nost grateful, but he 
waved her off with a tolerant gesture. Her 
ignorance of cisterns and pumps had placed 
her too far beneath him for argument. “It 
ain’t in my line,” he repeated, as he put on 
his belongings in the shed, “but to oblige-” 

Betsy looked at her mother. “Oh, don’t 
you hope the rain stops?” she said with a 
flutter of expectancy. “I’ve never seen a 
cistern cleaned before. Suppose we should 
find some buried treasure in it!” 

Her mother shared her hopes in regard to 
the rain, though she did not seem so san¬ 
guine as to the hidden contents of the large 
tank, and they both looked out with interest 
the next morning when each opened her eyes 
in their separate rooms. 




104 


Betsy Hale 


"It’s going to clear!” called Betsy down the 
narrow stair. 

There was a tapping and then the scrap¬ 
ing of a ladder against the side of the house, 
a sound of men’s voices that proclaimed Mr. 
Simpson a man of his word. The tinsmith 
was pulling down the dilapidated pipes and 
there was a business-like litter about the 
back door and in the shed when Betsy followed 
her mother through the kitchen to open the 
door for Mr. Simpson. 

“He’s here,” Mr. Simpson, said with a 
jerk of his head toward the roof. “Pipes is 
all wore out, but we’ll fix ’em.” 

Mr. North had the dilapidated pipes 
down in a surprisingly short time, and had 
trotted off to his shop in the village to con¬ 
struct new ones, before Jimmy Delaney 
arrived for his duties w r ith the coal hods. 
Mr. Simpson was on the ladder in the cistern 
by that time, and he annexed Jimmy to help 
bail out some of the water at the bottom of 
the tank, and Betsy, recalling Philip Meade’s 
w r ords, kept such a close watch on Jimmy 
that he presently grew T uneasy and left half 
an hour before school time, vowing that he’d 
be late and then what ’ud happen? 



What Betsy Found in the Cistern 105 


Betsy breathed a sigh of relief when he was 
gone. It was a great care to have him about. 
She sat down on her knees at the edge of the 
cistern and stared down, fascinated by the 
sight. The lantern which was hung to a 
nail at the flooring, cast weird shadows on 
the darkened walls of the tank. Mr. Simp¬ 
son’s hat and whiskers loomed prodigiously 
in the gloom. He had a cloth and a scrubbing 
brush and was carefully scrubbing the walls 
from the top downward. The cistern was 
hard to cleanse and it was a long time before 
he went down another rung of the ladder. 
Betsy found it very exciting. 

He was on the third rung and her mother’s 
typewriter had begun to click when she put 
the question: 

“Have you ever found anything, any treas¬ 
ure, in cisterns?” she asked with some mis¬ 
givings. 

He swallowed dryly. “Ain’t apt to,” he 
answered. “The pipes as feeds ’em comes 
from the roofs and there ain’t much treasure 
lyin’ about loose up there, I’ll warrant.” 

“Couldn’t it be dropped in, though?” 
persisted Betsy, unable to relinquish the idea. 



106 


Betsy Hale 


“By mistake, you know. Or to hide it, and 
then be forgotten. It might happen that 
way, I think.” 

Mr. Simpson turned his faded eyes upon her. 
“If there is any, I never found it,” he said 
briefly. “Rabbits and field mice, now. 
They’re good and plenty.” 

Betsy was abashed by his manner and she 
kept still for a long time, though she could 
not bring herself to leave. Her silence seemed 
to prove acceptable to Mr. Simpson. He 
began to talk of his own accord. 

He told of his own cistern, and how Emma 
Clara had helped bail all one morning, “like 
a Troshum,” he said, but Betsy understood 
that he meant Trojan. It was all one, since it 
was of Emma Clara that Mr. Simpson wanted 
to talk. Never was such a girl, it seemed. 
Could cook, and so happy-spirited, too. Just 
like her mother, only Emma Clara had light 
hair and the Missis had been reddish-like. 

“Was she at church?” asked Betsy politely, 
and when he shook his head she added hope¬ 
fully, “Perhaps Mother saw her at the 
library. I’ll have to ask her if she remembers 
her.” 



What Betsy Found in the Cistern 107 


Mr. Simpson shook his head again, but more 
gloomily this time. “She don’t go to the 
liberry,” he replied, scrubbing very hard. 
The dimness and isolation of the cistern made 
him quite confidential. “She can’t be got to 
the liberry, Emma Clara can’t. No, sir. 
Give her a book to read and she’ll whiz 
through it like a circklar saw through a 
popple twig; but ask her to go for a book to 
the liberry, and there you are—she won’t 
budge.” 

Betsy was too much interested to note how 
the shadow of his whiskers trembled on the 
wall. “What makes her that way?” she 
demanded. 

Mr. Simpson wrung his cloth vindictively. 
“I ain’t so clear myself,” he confessed. 
“ Can’t never get her to say just bang out. 
Seems, though, that she made a mess of askin’ 
for a book one day when she was a school gal, 
made ’em laugh, she says. All she’ll tell 
me is that she ain’t goin’ to let ’em laugh at 
her, not for nothing. Says she’d go fast 
enough if she knew what books was the style. 
Emma Clara is awful strong on style,” he 
ended with some pride. 



108 


Betsy Hale 


Betsy thought over this before she spoke. 

“I suppose she means that if she knew what 
authors wrote the best books she’d go and 
ask for them,” she said, feeling rather puzzled 
nevertheless. 

“Arthurs ain’t what’s troublin’ her. I’ll 
warrant,” retorted Mr. Simpson contemp¬ 
tuously, “but you wouldn’t understand if you 
was told. You’re too smallish to know about 
liberry books.” 

Betsy opened her eyes at this disparage¬ 
ment. “Oh, but I do know a good deal 
about books!” she cried, warmly. “I’ve 
always read with Father and Mother, and 
they both wrote things, you know-” 

Mr. Simpson interposed, with an effort 
to be pacific and agreeable. “Yes, yes. I’ll 
warrant you’re smart enough in your way,” 
he said, tolerantly; “but you’re young. 
You’re young.” 

He continued to mutter this sentence as 
he went on with his work and Betsy was silent 
again. It was not until he had gone down two 
steps of the ladder that another idea came to 
her. She had been thinking of a great many 
things in the interval, but nothing that had 





What Betsy Found in the Cistern 109 


any connection with Mr. Simpson as a car¬ 
penter until she recalled the arbor in the 
triangle. 

“Could you tell me how much two plain 
board seats and a plain board table for the 
grape arbor would cost?” she inquired 
abruptly. “It w r ould have to be made very 
secretly—for a birthday, you know.” 

Mr. Simpson, in the turn of his head toward 
her, resumed the aspect of a carpenter which 
he had shed when he took to scrubbing. He 
rubbed his chin. 

“The arbor in the garding?” he asked. 

Betsy nodded. 

“Hm-m,” he meditated, looking more like 
a carpenter than ever. “Well, as far as I 
can say off-handed like, about two dollars 
and a half.” 

“Thank you,” said Betsy in a small 
withered voice. “I am very glad to know.” 

The wild hope that had sprung up within 
her died as swiftly as it had grown. She 
continued to sit on the floor in a bunch until 
her mother called her to her lessons and Mr. 
Simpson worked on alone. 

During the interval of dinner she wished 



110 


Betsy Hale 


many times that she had not been so sociable 
with the taciturn Mr. Simpson. “If I only 
hadn’t asked him about the seats and table,” 
she said over and over again to herself. 
“He’ll think I want them—unless,” she said 
with spirit, “he thinks I’m too young to know 
what I’m talking about.” 

Mr. Simpson, when he came back, went 
to his work silently. He seemed to be par¬ 
ticularly thoughtful, though he swallowed a 
great deal when he looked at Betsy, who could 
not resist huddling down to watch him 
“for just ten minutes by the clock,” she 
promised herself, though as a matter of fact, 
she stayed much longer. But that was Mr. 
Simpson’s fault. 

She had barely settled herself when he 
straightened up on his ladder—for he was now 
almost at the bottom—and opened the con¬ 
versation. 

“I was tellin’ Emma Clara about them 
arthers you spoke of,” he began, “and she 
seems to think you must know about ’em or 
you couldn’t speak out that a-way about 
’em. Emma Clara can see through a knot¬ 
hole, I can tell you! Yes, sir. And she says 



What Betsy Found in the Cistern 111 


to ask you if you’d put her on to ’em—on the 
sly like. She’d pay, or since you’re wantin’ 
them seats, we might make a dicker on it. 
She wouldn’t mind your showin’ her the trick, 
bein’ you’re so young and all that. But 
mum’s the word, or it don’t go.” 

Betsy almost slid into the cistern in her 
eagerness. “Oh, could you? Would you?” 
she cried. “Oh, how sweet! I’d love to do it. 
And I’d never, never tell. It would be my 
secret, too, you know. I shouldn’t want 
Mother to guess.” 

Mr. Simpson turned to his scrubbing. 
“It’s a bargain,” he agreed. “You’ll give 
my girl the tips on arthers, and when the time 
comes for your birthday surprise, I’ll whip 
up the lumber in two winks. Nobody the 
wiser on either side.” 

And, having made his bargain, he became 
absorbed in his work. 

Betsy rocked back and forth on her knees. 

“H—how much should I charge for the 
readings?” she asked timidly. 

She was to learn that no villager will name 
a price for any consideration. Mr. Simpson 
stared and swallowed but could not help her. 



112 


Betsy Hale 


“Oh, anything you think’s right,” he 
replied. “You know better’n I do.” 

Betsy had to manage it herself. “Would a 
quarter be all right?” she asked, ready to 
alter the charge if she saw any dissatisfaction. 

Mr. Simpson seemed relieved. “Suits me 
O. K.,” he responded cheerfully. “When’ll 
you start?” 

“Right away, if she is ready,” replied 
Betsy. “I can go over this afternoon. She’ll 
want to be ready for the library this week, 
won’t she?” 

This promptness pleased him. “That’s the 
talk,” he said heartily. “Emma Clara’ll like 
that. ‘The sooner the better,’ was her 
very words. I live next the church, you 
know.” 

Betsy had not known, but it pleased her to 
find Emma Clara so near, and she promised 
to go there when she went for the afternoon 
mail, which came in at three o’clock. 

She left Mr. Simpson to end his labors alone 
and she went out of doors to exult. “I’m 
going to teach,” she thought proudly. “And 
that’s the same as making money, for I’ll get 
the seats and table for it. I’m getting on 
pretty fast, I think.” 



What Betsy Found in the Cistern 113 


She felt so strong in her own abilities that 
she went out behind the boxbush and she dug 
up poor Jemima, wooden box and all, and 
carried her into the barn, meaning to smuggle 
her into the house when the coast was clear 
and to lay her away among the cobwebby 
, bandboxes and chests of the tiny top loft. 
“I’m growing up very fast, Jemmy dearest,” 
she told her, refraining from the hug^that she 
longed for. “I’m going to make money and 

be a regular housekeeper, too,-” 

She stopped as a sound outside made her 
heart stand still. She had no wish to be 
found “playing with dolls” again. She 
slipped Jemima into the empty feed bin, 
leaving the box on the ground, and she ran 
from the place in quite a flurry, only to find 
that it had been Mac, nosing about the 
cracks of the door that had so startled her. 

“But I won’t take Jemmy out now,” she 
thought, as she went back to the house, 
skipping a little for sheer excitement. “It’s 
nearly three o’clock and I must go for the 
mail.” 

She ran up to tell her mother that she was 
going out, and stopping only to catch up a 
8 





114 


Betsy Hale 


small, fine edition of Cranford from the 
bookshelf and to tuck a popular list of a 
hundred best books inside its covers, she 
hurried off on her errands. 

“I didn’t exactly find any buried treasure 
in the cistern,” she said with a little laugh as 
she shut the gate after her. “But I got 
something about as good. Two seats and a 
table are worth two whole dollars and a half.” 

As she passed the beechwood copse, she 
began to see another side of it. 

“I wonder what Emma Clara will be like? 
If she’s very hard to teach, I don’t know how 
I’ll manage,” she thought, feeling, as Mr. 
Simpson had described her, very young indeed. 




CHAPTER VI 


New Horizons 

T EE neat house was pleasant to see, 
even in its March bareness. The 
winter-browned honeysuckle and well- 
clipped privet of its dooryard suggested thrift 
and promised beauty in their own season. 

“I know I shall like her better than I 
thought,” said Betsy, as she recalled the 
whiskers and goloshes of Emma Clara’s 
parent. “Mr. Simpson said she wasn’t 
like him, at any rate, though he’s very nice, 
too.” 

She stepped on the neat porch and looked 
for a bell or a knocker, but she found instead 
something much more diverting. In the 
middle panel of the door there was a flat 
circle of iron with a thumb-screw in its center 
and an arrow on the iron edge, pointing the 
way the screw should turn. Betsy had never 
seen such a doorbell. She knew it at once 
for a doorbell, however, and she turned the 

( 115 ) 



116 


Betsy Hale 


screw with a sense of pleasant expectancy. 
It seemed as though almost anything might 
come of it. She would not have been surprised 
had a genie appeared. 

She heard the tinkling hum within and she 
smiled to find how different it was from what 
she had expected. “It’s like an electric 
motor,” she thought. “Perhaps Emma Clara 
is stylisher than I expected.” 

The door was promptly opened by a bright¬ 
faced girl who was neither so old-fashioned 
as a genie nor so up-to-date as an electric 
brougham, though she was very agreeable 
to look at, in her pretty gingham house dress 
with her light hair coiled softly in her neck. 

She did not wait for Betsy to speak. 

“Come right in,” she said, in a clear low 
voice. “You’re right on time, ain’t you?” 

She had such a nice manner of speaking and 
she looked so self-possessed and agreeable 
that Betsy found it hard to believe she could 
be the prospective student. It was hard to 
fancy her hesitating before a librarian, par¬ 
ticularly when it happened to be such a 
kindly, untrained librarian as the one as 
Mrs. Hale had described. 



New Horizons 


117 


Emma Clara gave her no chance to doubt. 
She led her into the front room, which, in 
spite of chenille table covers and some agoniz¬ 
ing prints of well-known pictures in bright 
gilt frames, was a very cozy place. 

She put Betsy in the big rocker near the 
stove while she took the patent rocker by 
the window. All their best chairs seemed to 
be rockers. 

“Fm glad you didn’t bring a great large, 
immense book to start on,” she said cheer¬ 
fully, glancing at the small “Cranford” in 
Betsy’s hands. “Most of the books are silly, 
or dry. So it’ll be short—that’s a mercy.” 

Betsy was rather abashed by this positive 
point of view, but she set to her task man¬ 
fully. She tried to explain to the attentive 
Emma Clara the difference between what 
she hotly called “trash” and the books that 
were lasting possessions. She got rather 
involved, however, and as Emma Clara kept 
looking uneasily at the clock, she broke off 
abruptly from her explanations. 

“I’d best read a while,” she said, feeling 
that her task was a larger one than she had 
looked for. “You won’t like this—it’s only 



118 


Betsy Hale 


a very quiet story. But it’s short. And 
everybody ought to know about Cranford,” 
and then opened the book and began to read. 

When the clock struck four she paused. 
Emma Clara, coming back to realities, found 
her voice. 

“Well, I declare if I knew how the time 
was going/ 5 she said in some surprise. “It’s 
such easy-going work, hearing you read 
that way. It don’t sound a bit like reading 
to me. That bit about Miss Barker’s cow, 
now. That’s natural as life.” 

Betsy’s heart sank, until she realized that 
this was meant to be praise and then she 
glowed with relief. “Oh, do you really like 
it?” she cried. “Do you, honestly?” 

Emma Clara looked thoughtful. “It’s so 
dead easy, though,” she explained slowly. 
“All the books the ministers gave me were 
awfully hard to read. Big words that I never 
heard of—books on pish-ology and di-lectics, 
whatever they are. I saw the di-lectic book 
in the manse and I thought it was a cook 
book. It sounded like diet, you know. So I 
asked for it. And after that he sent me a 
couple of others. They were stunners, I tell 
you.” 



New Horizons 


119 


The clock was beckoning Betsy, but she 
could not tear herself away. “ Didn’t you 
ever try anything else?” she questioned, won¬ 
dering. “Isn’t your father fond of reading?” 

“Oh, he’s great on the Highville Intelli¬ 
gencer and the Spears and Hobuc catalogues,” 
replied Emma Clara, feeling that this was 
quite satisfactory for a man and a parent. 
“He’s always going to that catalogue when 
he’s extra time on his hands. Yes, he’s a 
reader all right, but not just in the line I’m 
needing.” Her glance strayed to a shelf 
over the organ. “Gladys Boggs, over at 
Greenville, always sends me a book for 
Christmas. She’s crazy on reading. Always 
has a book around. Lots of lords and ladies 
and footmen in them, too. They’re well 
enough at first, but you sort of sicken on 
them.” They aren’t much in my line. I’d 
as lief read a almanac. That’s real, at any 
rate. That Cranford book’s real, too, and 
it’s easy—easier than a cook book even. If 
you could come over again before Saturday 
I’d be obliged.” 

Betsy had just agreed when there was a 
knock at the back door, and Betsy, not 




120 


Betsy Hale 


wishing to be suspected, hurried off well 
enough pleased with her first effort. 

“ That’s one whole quarter I’ve earned 
already/’ she said joyfully. “What a splen¬ 
did start! I’ll soon be regularly rich at this 
rate.” 

She was in such a triumphant mood that 
even when she met Selma Worthington by 
the store and learned that she was leaving the 
village for a long visit, she was not much 
dismayed. The Friday Sewing Class was of 
less importance to her now. She was gen¬ 
uinely sorry to say good-bye to Selma just 
as she had expected to know her better, but 
she accepted the postponement of their friend¬ 
ship with resignation, remembering Emma 
Clara and the desirable quarters. 

“I’ll be back for the Fair, of course,” 
Selma told her. “We’ll go together there, 
anyway.” 

Betsy agreed heartily and then, being later 
than she had promised, she hurried off, waving 
a farewell at the corner and trotting along 
briskly; for she was rather exact about 
keeping her word and she had told her mother 
she should be home at half-past four. 

i 



New Horizons 


121 


The little white house nestling in the angle 
of the roads looked very dear and desirable 
to her as she came pattering down the incline 
past the thicket. She was quite alone on the 
highway, so she could blow kisses to it quite 
as though it were a person, 

“The Wee Corner,” she said with a relish. 
“That’s just what it is—a wee darling of a 
place. Oh, I’m so glad Philip told me its 
real name. We couldn’t have made up one 
half so nice.” 

And thinking of Philip she found herself 
wishing that she might ask him some more 
questions about Mr. Gun. “ I can’t ask Jimmy 
Delaney anything,” she thought impatiently. 
“He grins at everything and he’s impudent to 
older people, too. I saw him make faces at 
Mr. Simpson behind his back. I wouldn’t 
trust him. Philip was right about him. 
He’s only a care and a burden.” 

She sighed as she looked forward to Jimmy’s 
visits, and Philip’s cheerful society took on 
attractions by force of contrast. She felt she 
must know all there was to be known about 
Mr. Robert Gun, Scotchman and friend of 
Philip. “He’ll tell me a lot, I’m sure,” she 
said hopefully. 



122 


Betsy Hale 


Her mother was still in her room when Betsy 
entered the house, but the typewriter soon 
ceased to sound and Mrs. Hale came down 
to ordinary life again. Betsy found it very 
hard not to blurt out her secret. 

All that evening and the next day, she had 
to watch herself very closely indeed. She 
managed it, though, and she was very proud 
of herself for such restraint. “I couldn’t 
have done it if Mother weren’t so very, very 
busy,” she told herself as she waited for the 
rattle of the milk wagon the next morning. 
“I never knew her to work so much on that 
machine. I wonder why she never stops.” 

She forgot to wonder, as the wagon came 
up. Philip was not in it. A big good- 
natured man in a khaki gunning coat and 
stubbly beard ladled out the milk, offering 
no explanation and driving off without another 
word beyond a cheerful “Morning” when he 
came and a nod as he left. It was very dis¬ 
appointing, when she had been prepared to be 
sociable, to meet with a blank wall like this. 

Perhaps that was why she remembered 
Jemima, who had been her rock in times 
past. 



New Horizons 


123 


Mac frisked beside her, but she shut him 
out. The dim interior seemed darker than 
ever in contrast to the shining morning out¬ 
side, where a brilliant new world Vas glistening 
in the warm sunshine. The buggy with its 
gray linen cover loomed larger than usual 
and the harness seemed to peer at her as she 
went to the feed bin. It w^as a lonely place 
for poor Jemima and Betsy hastened to her 
relief. 

She raised the heavy lid with a struggle. 
It had taken only a crack to slip Jemima in, 
but it had to be opened wide before Betsy 
could reach her two hands into the dusty 
cavern to grope for her discarded favorite. 

She gave a cry as she came upon her. 
“Oh, Jemmy!” she exclaimed. “Oh, my 
dear Jemima!” 

The faithful friend was a crumbling ruin. 

Her bran body was gone and her battered 
face looked out of a fringe of chewed and 
tattered pink muslin that had once been her 
flesh. The rats had been swift and thorough. 
It was a real tragedy. 

Betsy felt the sting of remorse. She knew 
that Jemima would never have been parted 



124 


Betsy Hale 


from her pink bran body but for her own 
carelessness. And she realized for the first 
time how lost, how entirely and completely 
lost, was the old relationship. 

She kissed the poor face very tenderly, and 
she shed some tears as she tucked the dear 
head into the inside pocket of her big coat. 
“ So as to be nearer my heart, Jemmy dearest,” 
she whispered. And then, because she did 
not want to go outside to the glare of happy 
sunlight or to meet her mother who was 
coming down presently, and might be already 
getting breakfast, she pushed aside the linen 
covering and climbed into the red-wheeled 
buggy; thereby opening a new chapter of 
her experiences. 

The buggy was very comfortable, but that 
was not what made the difference. Betsy 
had been used, long ago, to very comfortable 
automobiles. But a buggy was different. 
You at once began to think of long drives 
through shady lanes where roses bloomed and 
birds sang. You had never been in a buggy 
before, of course, but somehow you knew 
that this was what they were for. One took 
long, happy, rambling drives in them, and 
had all sorts of adventures. 



New Horizons 


125 


Betsy sat for a while, with Jemima’s head 
pressed against her heart. It was very 
pleasant, the sensation of driving which she 
got from sitting in the buggy gave such color 
to her thoughts. 

A bark from Mac, who had returned and 
was impatient to be let in, roused her. She 
got down from the buggy. Her face was 
wistful and her eyes clear and wondering. 
She paused as she put the cover in place, and 
she gently pressed one hand caressingly on 
the lumpy place above her heart. 

“ Good-bye, Jemima dear, dearest,” she 
whispered, and her whisper was all the more 
fervent that she knew she had grown beyond 
such consolations as had served her younger 
days. “ Good-bye for really. I’m sorry, 
but-” 

She did not know just what she was sorry 
for. She had a sense of having gone beyond 
many of her old ideas and occupations. It 
made her feel queer and yet strangely excited. 
She knew that she should never need Jemima 
again in exactly the way she used to need her. 
The world was growing very wide indeed. 




CHAPTER VII 


Great Expectations 

V 

B ETSY kept that sense of having left 
something behind her, and of having 
come into better things. A great many 
things happened to keep it strong and fresh 
for the next few days. 

In the first place, she was very busy. Her 
mother was incessantly at her writing table 
now and Betsy was left to cope with the 
household matters as best she might for the 
rest of that remarkable week. She had her 
own lessons and all the errands to do, 
besides going for mail, and thinking and 
planning a good deal as to the course of 
reading that might best equip Miss Simpson 
for her encounters with the book-reading 
public. All this made her feel the pulse of 
the new life strongly. 

It made her ambitious, too. For, having 
overcome one dragon, she began to pursue 
another. 


( 126 ) 


Great Expectations 


127 


No sooner was she assured, by the success of 
her first visit to the Simpson home, of the 
■coveted seats and tables than she actually 
began to hanker after the unattainable lemon¬ 
ade set. The picture in the premium list 
tantalized her. She saw it before her when¬ 
ever she thought of the arbor and the birth¬ 
day treat, and she felt convinced that could 
she only secure the prospect of the lemonade 
set to place on the birthday table, she might 
look on the Wee Corner as her home for 
years. It seemed a talisman to work the 
magic that should keep them there. 

She even told Miss Simpson of it on Thurs¬ 
day afternoon. 

Their friendship had progressed rapidly, 
and it was while Emma Clara was wiping 
her eyes over brave Captain Brown’s death 
—a scene that always brought Betsy’s tears— 
that the secret desire of her heart was laid 
bare. 

“I just can’t help wanting it dreadfully,” 
she said, “I sort of feel if I could manage 
it, that everything else would go beautifully.” 
She had not told of their agreement in regard 
to the housekeeping test. 



128 


Betsy Hale 


“You might get someone you know to 
take some of the coffee,” suggested Emma 
Clara. “Lots of people never think of hav¬ 
ing the checks, you know. They don’t even 
know about them.” 

Betsy knew this to be quite true in her own 
case, but she shook her head. “I don’t 
know anyone,” she returned. “Even if I 
did ask any of the village people I couldn’t 
keep the checks. They’re none of them very 
rich, and they’d like them for themselves.” 

It was a blockade, but Emma Clara sur¬ 
mounted it. 

“There’s Mrs. Bond out on the Highville 
road,” she said thoughtfully. “She’ll be 
here this year for a couple of months. She’s 
got a gang of help and a whole parcel of com¬ 
pany all the while she’s here. She wouldn’t 
care about the checks, I’ll warrant.” 

Betsy knew nothing of Mrs. Bond. 

Emma Clara explained: “She used to live 
right here in the village in that nice old house 
near the bridge. They were good people but 
awfully poor, and she did all sorts of things— 
tried to raise chickens, and everything. Then 
she married Mr. Bond, just as her mother died. 



Great Expectations 


129 


and she’s been in clover ever since. She 
conies here about a month out of every year, 
just to make herself feel comfortable by 
seeing how far up she’s gone, since she used 
to worry and scratch for the dollars on this 
very spot.” 

“She doesn’t sound very nice,” remarked 
Betsy with a frown. 

“Oh, she’s nice, all right,” said Emma 
Clara, good naturedly. “She’s a mighty 
good woman, though she does like to show her¬ 
self. You can’t blame her too much for that, 
either. It’s dizzy-fying to be a millonaire, I 
guess. She’s said to be right tenderhearted, 
if you get on the right side of her, though she’s 
so sort of crusted over with grandness that 
you ain’t apt to see it straight off.” 

They talked for a while about this fortunate 
lady, whose only misfortune seemed to be an 
ailing daughter. 

Betsy could not make up her mind about 
this plan for securing the checks. It had its 
advantages, but it required courage. “I’ll 
ask the coffee man if it would do,” she finally 
decided and they left the matter there for 
the present. 

9 



130 


Betsy Hale 


The suggestion of such a plan, however, 
gave her the feeling of wide enterprise and 
business ability, and she walked home with 
her head held high. 

The heavy languor of early spring was in 
the air. There was an odor abroad that was 
like no other odor in this changing world. 

She felt the pulse of energy that would 
bring flowers and melody to the dull scene, 
and she heard an echo of it in her own heart. 
“I believe I can do it, if it’s all right,” she 
said, thinking of Mrs. Bond, and she smiled 
as she looked toward the upland where the 
farmer plowed, whistling; and her mind was 
filled with visions of the happy summer 
beyond the horizon. “I could do almost 
anything now ,” she told herself. 

She lingered on the way until the sun was 
down. She found her mother looking out at 
the afterglow back of the trees on the hill with 
eyes that shone" and lips that trembled. 
Something must have occurred, she was 
certain and she gave a little eager start as 
her mother turned to her and spoke. 

“I’ve finished it,” Mrs. Hale said with 
a glad tremor in her voice. “Oh, Betsy, I’ve 




Great Expectations 


131 


finished it! And I’ll send it off tomorrow. 
Of course, it will be weeks before we can hear 
about it-” 

Betsy was so amazed by her mother’s 
manner that she broke in. “Your writing, 
you mean?” she asked, relieved and yet 
puzzled by the intensity of the tone. “Are 
the publishers in a hurry for it? You never 
wrote so hard before, I think.” 

The shining eagerness was veiled by sud¬ 
den anxiety. “They may be in a hurry for 
it, and—they may not,” she replied breath¬ 
lessly. 

Her tone was so strange that Betsy caught 
her hand in alarm. “Oh, Mother, what do 
you mean?” she asked. “Do tell me. You 
are so—so strange that I’m all puzzled-” 

Her mother drew a deep breath. “It’s a 
book—a novel,” she said rapidly. “I wrote 
it long ago, before your father died. I wrote 
it in scraps, and then I put it away and forgot 
it. When I saw it among the papers here, I 
found that it was better than I thought. 
I’ve been re-writing parts of it—the new 
environment gave me inspiration and strength. 
And now it’s finished.” 








132 


Betsy Hale 


Betsy broke out as she paused. “Oh, 
Mother, how beautiful!” she cried, excited 
and wondering. “How could you ever man¬ 
age to do it—a novel, a real novel! How 
lovely it’ll be to have people asking at the 
libraries for Mrs. Hale’s book. Oh, 
Mother!” And she kissed her ecstatically. 

Mrs. Hale glowed and laughed and then 
grew sober. “It will be a long way to that 
happiness, Betsy dear,’ she said, with her 
childish look coming to her eyes. “They may 
not take it. I’ve spent all my time on it 
when I ought to have been doing other work, 
too. They may not take it.” 

“Not take it?” exclaimed Betsy indig¬ 
nantly. “Haven’t you been writing nice 
reviews for ages and ages? Why shouldn’t 
they take it?” 

Her mother did not answer at once. She 
seemed to become suddenly very tired. 
“Don’t let’s talk about it any more now,” 
she said gently. “We’ll have long enough 
to wait, in any case. I have something more 
to tell you, too, that will please you, I am 
sure. I have been thinking a good deal about 
it, here in the twilight by myself. And I’ve 



Great Expectations 


133 


come to the conclusion that we will have to 
stay here for a month at least. I shall have 
to rest a while before I can get at my regular 
work. This has rather taken it out of me. 
And it is very inexpensive here.” 

Betsy hardly heard the reasons. She was 
so delighted with the fact that nothing else 
mattered just then. The future glowed rosy 
before her and she clasped her hands tightly 
as she cried, “A month? Why, that’s plenty 
of time, I’ll have learned so much and I’ll 
have a chance to—” She caught herself in 
time, and added more soberly, “You’ll love 
it so by that time you won’t want to leave. 
I’m very, very glad, Mother dear.” 

Mrs. Hale rose. “That’s disposed of, 
at all events,” she said brightly. “Now, let’s 
pitch into housekeeping. It’s time to begin 
with supper.” 

Betsy’s feeling of having left childish things 
behind was strong upon her the next day, as 
she laid the ruins of Jemima to rest forever 
in a small tin box in the topmost peak of the 
tiny loft above her room and she was con¬ 
scious of that subdued sorrow which time has 
touched with his healing wing. 



134 


Betsy Hale 


Her mind was full of memories of those 
earlier days when the then rosy cheeks of the 
smiling doll had been first kissed by her, and 
that, perhaps, was the reason she did not 
notice the nail. It caught her firmly by the 
skirt hem, at all events, and held her fast. 
Betsy stooped to release her dress and a pack 
of old pamphlets thrust away near the open¬ 
ing attracted her attention. She sat down to 
investigate. 

“And the truth shall make you free,” she 
read in large emphatic letters of the first 
headline. 

It had been the text of the Sunday’s ser¬ 
mon and Betsy had liked it then. She read 
on eagerly. The pamphlet was one of the 
League’s first efforts and it was hot with 
energy. Betsy found it misty in places, but 
she managed to get a pretty fair idea of the 
blessed advantages set forth in it of telling 
and acting the truth on all occasions, in 
season and out of season—the whole truth and 
nothing but the truth. 

At the end of an ardent half hour she 
dropped the book in her lap and her clear, 
steady, courageous eyes shone with a new 



Great Expectations 


135 


light. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “I 
don’t wonder Mother loved it. Oh, it’s just 
beautiful!” 

She sat quite still for a while, thinking 
rapturously. She felt more grown-up than 
ever. She was aflame with the desire for 
regeneration. She would try to reform herself 
first, as the minister had fitly urged. Oh, 
she would try very hard, indeed. She knew 
she should be brave and merciless. 

Down from the loft she went and began 
to practice her own reform in a characteristic 
fashion. The sword was in her unswerving 
hand—was it strange that some wounds 
should be dealt? 

She stuck to the truth rigorously and in the 
minutest detail. It made her companion¬ 
ship a bit duller than usual, but her mother 
was too fatigued and absent to notice, or 
Betsy might have been spared remorse. 

Betsy was the lone apostle. She sharpened 
her sword and tested its edge on her own 
w^ords and actions. It was very keen and yet 
she hesitated. Her courage failed her when it 
came to the pinch. 

She tried it on Jimmy Delaney first. He 



136 


Betsy Hale 


laughed in her face when she painted a picture 
of the delights of absolute truthfulness. 
“ Better see how it goes yerself,” he retorted. 
“I heered you say as how you was tired to 
death yisterdee, and you’re alive all-rightie 
this mornin’. You ought-a a-died, if you was 
so pertickeler.” 

Betsy had been rather uneasy about the 
grinning Jimmy from the first. She had 
doubted him when Mac refused his open over¬ 
tures—Mac and Jimmy had met before on 
the roads—and she felt positive now that a 
boy who would not even pretend to like the 
truth, must be indeed a dark character. 

She had great doubts, too, about the coffee 
plan until Monday morning when the coffee 
man made his punctual appearance. Mrs. 
Hale had gone for the mail and Betsy put her 
questions unmolested. 

“Surely, surely, it would be all right in 
this case,” he said, smiling at her with his 
eyes looking very bright through his big 
goggles, “If the other party agrees to it, we 
can’t kick.” 

Betsy put the coffee away, tucked the two 
red checks into the secret box in her own 



Great Expectations 


137 


bureau and then slipped hurriedly over to 
the Simpson house. Emma Clara had offered 
to take her part of the way in her buggy, if 
the coffee man agreed to the plan. 

She rang the twirling bell and faced Emma 
Clara with inward excitement, though she 
spoke quietly. 

“He says it’s all right. We can go tomor¬ 
row, if you're willing.” 



CHAPTER Vm 


Betsy Makes a Call 

THAT a pity it’s too warm for my 
dear velvets,” sighed Betsy, look- 
* * ing at herself in the glass with 
some misgivings. “I’m not very inviting 
looking in every-day clothes. But I couldn’t 
let Mother suspect it was such a very special 
occasion.” 

She was a plain little figure in her dull 
linen dress with her broad-toed shoes and 
soft felt hat. If it had not been for her erect 
carriage and the bright courage that looked 
out of her clear eyes, she might have been 
quite insignificant. Betsy’s forbears had 
been leaders in their day and they had left 
their legacy to this small, blue-eyed 
descendant. 

Emma Clara Simpson, waiting for her in 
an old, well-scrubbed buggy, at the top of the 
hill beyond the beech grove, smiled as she 
greeted her. Emma Clara knew the real 

( 138 ) 


Betsy Makes a Call 


139 


thing when she saw it, in spite of her parent’s 
whiskers and Adam’s apple. 

"It’s a splendid day and everybody’ll be 
in a good humor,” she said, as Betsy climbed 
aboard. “You’ll have luck. I’ll warrant.” 

This was a pleasant beginning. And the 
drive was very pleasant, too. It was almost 
as Betsy had fancied it would be to ride in a 
buggy. Emma Clara, who had an eye for 
these things, pointed out a great many remark¬ 
able things to her. 

Betsy was rather silent. Although the 
sense of the surging life of field and forest 
thrilled her strangely, she did not forget 
that she had serious business before her; and 
when Emma Clara brought the shambling 
horse to a standstill in a lane near a clump 
of carefully trimmed evergreens, her heart 
leaped up and then sank with a flop! 

Emma Clara helped her out and then drew 
the light robes over her own knees. “Go 
right in that gateway on the pike,” she said. 
“You’ll have luck, I’ll warrant.” And then 
she drove away. 

Betsy walked on mechanically. 

As she went up the imposing sweep of drive- 



140 


Betsy Hale 


way that led to the front of the wide-spread¬ 
ing, luxurious house, she felt a sudden sensa¬ 
tion in her throat which was not at all reassur¬ 
ing. It was like choking, and it made her wish 
very much to go back. 

“They have company, too,” she thought, 
all in a flurry, noticing some limousines at the 
side. “Perhaps I’d better come another 
day.” 

Her feet stopped of their own accord for 
one tiny moment while she faced this dis¬ 
heartening picture. 

Then she flung up her head still higher and 
her feet took up their work again. “I won’t 
be a silly baby after coming all this way,” 
she said, scornful of her own weakness. She 
was glad that she did not recall Emma Clara 
Simpson waiting in the buggy beyond the 
comer, until after she had gained her victory. 

Her feet took her obediently to the great 
entrance, where big iron chains across the 
steps told her that she was not expected to 
enter there. Mrs. Bond did things magnifi-; 
cently, it seemed. Betsy recalled the limou¬ 
sines at the side entrance. 

“I wonder if this is like going into the 



Betsy Makes a Call 


141 


kitchen by the back door, as they do in the 
village?” she thought, eyeing the small ornate 
doorway doubtfully. It had the aspect of a 
family affair. 

Then she caught sight of a strip of red 
carpet and a correct automobile footman 
standing on the graveled sweep by the flat 
step, and her inherited self-command came to 
her rescue. She went forward toward the 
door, not showing that she was at all impressed 
by the liveried servant, though he did make 
her a bit uncomfortable. The small door 
opened from inside and she stepped into the 
house as quietly as though she had been 
there before. 

Inside of the door, on the smooth green 
velvet carpet of the small hall, stood a tall 
young man, not dressed like the one outside, 
but in short trousers with blue garters about 
his knees and a tailed coat with striped collar 
and glittering buttons. Betsy wondered that 
he did not have powdered hair, like the 
English footmen in books, but she spoke to 
t him with great self-possession. 

“Is Mrs. Bond in?” she asked. 

Her manner seemed to reassure the young 




142 


Betsy Hale 


man, who had been eyeing her rather doubt¬ 
fully. 

“Yes, Miss, she is in the drawing-room,” 
he replied, with great apparent respect. 
“Please come this way.” 

It was strange how easily this great lady 
could be reached. Betsy, even with her mind 
full of new impressions, wondered at it as 
she followed the tall footman through an 
elaborate and ornate hall, where another man 
in livery stood staring vacantly at the carved 
and gilded scroll-work of the ceiling. This 
man took his eyes from the ceiling long enough 
to glance at Betsy as the tall young man mur¬ 
mured something about “Miss Helen” and 
“orders to take her in at once,” and then he 
went back to his comotose state, leaving 
matters take their own course. 

The rooms which the tall young footman led 
Betsy through were elaborate enough for a 
palace. The brocaded walls, the great, gilt 
Georgian consoles, the cabinets of rare curios, 
and the wonderful carved furniture all spoke 
of a lavish love of display. Betsy remembered 
museums which had made her feel like this. 

She was swiftly ushered into a great, low- 



Betsy Makes a Call 


143 


ceiled room which was even more luxurious 
than the others, and where, at the far end by a 
sunny window, a group of people were seated. 
The footman directed her toward this group 
with a polite bow, and then he vanished. 

The group turned at her approach. There 
was a magnificent lady whom Betsy recognized 
from the description of Mrs. Bond. A young 
lady with very light hair and very pink cheeks; 
an older lady in blue who was smiling very 
much; and a blunt-featured young man in 
irreproachable clothes made up the rest of 
the party. Betsy, in her plain drab clothes, 
was a strong contrast to them. 

Fortunately for herself, Betsy was not 
thinking of her own looks just then. She 
was very much more interested in the people 
who were looking at her. She selected Mrs. 
Bond for her special curtsy and she gave 
her quick little bobbing bows to the others 
in turn. 

“Good afternoon,” she said in her clear 
voice. 

There was an amused murmur from the 
others, while Mrs. Bond, glancing sharply at 
her from her large bright eyes, answered in 



144 


Betsy Hale 


that high musical tone which is the hall¬ 
mark of the social elect. 

“Good afternoon,” she returned, not un¬ 
kindly. “You are quite early, are you not?” 

Betsy flushed. “I am sorry. I didn’t 
want to disturb you,” she said, happily un¬ 
conscious of the smiles that passed between 
the lady in blue and the sparkling young 
lady. “I really didn’t expect to come in 
by that little door, like one of the family. 
They brought me right in, you see. Perhaps 
I should have asked the footman, but—” 
and her brow puckered a bit—“I thought 
that one shouldn’t talk to footmen. You 
see,” she explained, relaxing under the warmer 
look in Mrs. Bond’s eyes. “I’ve really never 
seen a live footman in a house before, and I 
hardly knew whnt was expected.” 

Mrs. Bond’s red lips parted in a gracious 
smile. “Well, you have arrived it seems, 
albeit a bit ahead of your hour,” she said. 
“Miss Helen will be ready to see you, how¬ 
ever, and Jacobs will take you to her at once. 
It was a mere matter of form to send you 
here. You’ll do very nicely, I am sure.” 

She was putting out her hand toward an 



Betsy Makes a Call 


145 


electric button nearby when Betsy’s exclama¬ 
tion arrested her. 

‘'Oh,” said Betsy, who understoof all at 
once why her entrance had been accom¬ 
plished so easily. “Oh, I’m not the person 
you think. I am Betsy Hale and I didn’t 
come to see Miss Helen at all.” 

Mrs. Bond drew back her hand and looked 
at her searchingly. “Are you not the girl 
who was to entertain Miss Helen while she 
takes her treatment his afternoon?” she 
asked, very much surprised and a little put 
out. 

Betsy shook her head very decidedly. “I 
am Betsy Hale, and I never was asked to 
come here,” she confessed. “I came on my 
own account. I hope you don’t mind my 
coming-” 

Mrs. Bond silenced her with a wave of her 
jeweled hand. “It is evidently a mistake,” 
she said. “I shall have to instruct Jacobs,” 
and she pressed the button firmly. She had 
quite a business-like air and Betsy remained 
silent while the tall young man received his 
orders to keep the young person whom Miss 
Helen expected in the small hall when she 


10 




146 


Betsy Hale 


came and to notify Mrs. Bond at once of her 
arrival. Then she turned to Betsy. 

“And you, my dear?” she said in a cool 
amused tone. “Have you come merely for 
a call? Or did your mama send you for-” 

Betsy was so horrified that she interruped: 
“Oh, no, indeed,” she protested earnestly. 
“She hasn’t the faintest idea that I am here, 
and I do hope that you’ll never breathe it to 
her. It is very important that she should 
never dream it.” 

The group began to smile more openly at 
this odd child. “And why is it so important 
that she shouldn’t know?” asked the young 
lady with the pink cheeks. 

“Why, you see,” began Betsy, who suddenly 
felt that her errand was a rather doubtful 
one, “she keeps me very select, though 
she does talk a great deal about being 
democratic ’ ’ 

A roar of laughter from the young man 
shattered her speech for the moment, but as 
her quick mind grasped his interpretation of 
her words, she went on bravely, looking at 
Mrs. Bond now and speaking with greater 
earnestness. 





Betsy Makes a Call 


147 


“I mean that she wouldn’t want me to be 
here selling things, like a book agent or—or—* 
a servant. But-” 

It was Mrs. Bond’s turn to interrupt. 
“Selling things?” she repeated. “What sort 
of things could a little girl like you want to 
sell? And who sent you here to sell them?” 

“Oh, no one—not a single soul!” cried 
Betsy. “I came of my own accord. I 
wanted the checks from the coffee for—for— 
a very good purpose. I felt sure you would 
not miss them. I thought you used a good 
deal of coffee—all the company and the 
servants drinking it, I suppose—and I did 
so hope you’d buy it from me. But no one 
sent me. You mustn’t think that.” 

Mrs. Bond looked at her, and perhaps it 
was a memory of her own pampered child that 
made her face soften to a very nice sort of 
smile and her voice grow gentler as she spoke. 
Betsy, in spite of her odd clothes, made a 
sweet picture, with her shapely erect head 
and serious, friendly eyes. 

“So you came to sell coffee to me?” she 
asked with some amusement. 

“I should be very, very glad to,” replied 








148 


Betsy Hale 


Betsy, more hopefully. “It’s very good 
coffee, and you can buy any priced goods you 
choose. I suppose you would like to see the 
catalog,” she ended, hesitating somewhat. 
The catalog did not match with the gilding 
and carving all about, and Betsy was quick 
to feel its inappropriateness. 

Mrs. Bond seemed genuinely interested 
now. “Tell me how you came here,” she 
said. 

Betsy took her words literally. “I came 
from the village in a buggy,” she answered, 
rather relieved that she had not met with 
instant denial. “If you’ve never been in a 
buggy, you can’t think how nice it is. Just 
as different from a machine as can be.” Mrs. 
Bond nodded, and Betsy recalled that she had 
been a country girl before she became so very 
grand. She grew more at her ease, as she 
went on, “I felt very uncomfortable after I 
got inside of your gates, it’s so different 
when one really comes to do a thing, you 
know. I almost turned back.” 

“What gave us the benefit of your society?” 
asked the blue lady, smiling, as Betsy thought, 
like a person behind a counter who wished to 
sell her goods. 



Betsy Makes a Call 


149 


Betsy flushed again at her tone, but she 
answered steadily. “It would have been 
silly to go back, when I’d come so far,” she 
explained, more to Mrs. Bond than to her 
questioner. “And so I came. Perhaps I 
should have asked the footman, but—I wasn’t 
quite used to him, you see. Our maid left 
last week and I’ve almost forgotten how it 
feels to have a servant in the house.” 

Another roar of mirth from the young man, 
but Betsy stood her ground. And because 
she did not stammer or appear overpowered 
by the grandeur of her surroundings, Mrs. 
Bond’s interest grew. 

“And if I do not buy your coffee. Miss 
Betsy Hale,” she asked, “if I find I need 
none of your wares, what shall you do then?” 

Betsy paled slightly, though she did not 
falter. “Then I’d just say good-bye and 
thank you for—for—being so polite to me,” 
she returned bravely, with her head a trifle 
higher than before. She took a step and 
paused before she made her curtsy. “May 
I go now?” she asked, while they all watched 
her with their smiling eyes. “And I hope 
you don’t mind me having come in at the 
family door?” 



150 


Betsy Hale 


There was an absolute silence as she made 
her curtsy and started to leave. It was a 
difficult moment, yet she came through it 
without defeat. She was quite at the door¬ 
way when Mrs. Bond halted her. 

“Come back and shake hands with me. 
Miss Betsy Hale,” she commanded, and 
Betsy, greatly wondering, obeyed. 

As her firm slim fingers clasped the soft 
white hand, Mrs. Bond looked full in her 
eyes, and Betsy looked back at her with her 
brave smile. “I hope,” said Betsy, “that I 
haven’t bothered you. It’s so horrid to have 
to say no, isn’t it?” 

Mrs. Bond’s finger was on the bell again, 
and her reply wns given in the form of an 
order to the tall young footman. “Take this 
young lady to Mrs. Barker’s room, Jacobs, 
and tell her that she is to buy all the coffee 
she needs from Miss Hale.” 

It was so sudden that Betsy’s head whirled. 

She managed her departure very well 
indeed, considering what a state she was in. 
She thanked Mrs. Bond very prettily and said 
a smiling good-bye to the others, and then 
she followed the silent-footed Jacobs down 



Betsy Makes a Call 


151 


an interminable maze of halls and apart¬ 
ments, past gilded doorways and tapestried 
alcoves till they came at last to a comfortable 
room where a dignified woman whom Jacobs 
introduced as Mrs. Barker, took Betsy in, 
while she examined her list and heard her 
explanations, and then, after promising abso¬ 
lute secrecy as to the checks she ordered an 
amount of coffee that simply staggered the 
unprepared saleswoman. 

Betsy waited till she had gotten out of sight 
of the great ornamental iron gates before she 
began to skip. It did not seem proper to 
show her joy until she was once again among 
the ruts and bushes of the lonely lane, but, 
once she was alone, she skipped very hard. 

“Sometimes six pounds a week! and some¬ 
times seven,” she chanted in a low exultant 
tone. “Oh, how perfectly lovely! It’ll 
only take about five weeks at that rate, and 
it’s just seven weeks till the birthday.” 
And then, catching sight of Emma Clara and 
the buggy around the curve, she called to 
her jubilantly: 

“You were right! You were right about 
being lucky. Do hurry and let me get in, 
till I tell you!” 



CHAPTER IX 


Betsy Helps Pack the Missionary 

Barrel 

** ]|~j! UT it is worth while to tell the 
truth always/’ insisted Betsy. “If 
I’d have tried to pretend that I 
was somebody else at Mrs. Bond’s yesterday, 
they’d have soon found me out and been 
cross-” 

“ Lands sakes, you needn’t go that far!” 
exclaimed Emma Clara rather impatiently. 
“There’s a heap of difference between acting 
lies and telling out every last atom of truth 
you know. If you keep on with this bee in 
your bonnet, it’s going to sting you good and 
hard before you’re done with it—mark my 
words.” 

Betsy felt that she was being misunder¬ 
stood. She was accused of things she had no 
desire for; nagging and making other people 
over, and picking holes were far from her 
aim. All she wanted to do was to tell the 

( 152 ) 



Packing the Missionary Barrel 153 


perfect truth, unspotted by shadow of deceit 
and courageously lovely. Emma Clara simply 
did not understand. She was sorry so fair 
a creature should disclose such blemishes. 
It had been pointed out, however, that it was 
no affair of her’s to amend error, so she 
turned to the book she had brought. 

“It’s a nature book this time,” she said in 
a rather remote tone. “You seemed to 
know so much about the birds and things that 
I thought you’d like it. It’s a lot of sketches 
on nature by a very-” 

“Why, there ain’t a picture in it!” inter¬ 
posed Emma Clara, who had been peering at 
the pages as Betsy opened the volume. “You 
must have brought the wrong book.” 

Betsy felt her spirits rise at this mistake 
on her pupil’s part. 

“I didn’t mean sketches with a brush or pen¬ 
cil,” she explained with a tinge of patronage. 
“These are written sketches—just little short 
writings, you know—not finished things like 
stories or books, but nice easy scraps of talk¬ 
ing and thinking.” 

E mm a Clara nodded thoughtfully. Her 
next words made Betsy feel still more com- 




154 Betsy Hale 


fortable. “ I’ve got a lot to learn yet a while,” 
she said wistfully, and then added in a more 
vigorous tone, “but I don’t mind making 
mistakes, if they learn me things I ought 
to know. And I don’t mind being set right, 
when it’s private and personal-like, though 
I do hate to make a monkey of myself before 
folks. You tell me whenever I make a break, 
will you? I’ll be obliged, I’m sure.” 

Betsy promised eagerly. Her little feeling 
of patronage faded into a genuine wish to be 
useful, and Emma Clara looked so fresh and 
pretty and earnest that it seemed quite a 
privilege to help her.j! Besides, she was 
almost quite grown up. It gave Betsy quite 
a thrill to think how old Emma Clara seemed 
to be. 

Emma Clara went on. “The Missionary 
Barrel is to be packed tonight. Would you 
like to go with me? I can bring a friend, so 
that’s all right, and you won’t mind they’re 
all being grown-up ladies, will you?” 

Betsy was too much pleased to hesitate. 
“Indeed, I’d love it,” she said warmly. 
“I’m sure Mother will let me go, when she 
knows it’s with you. I’ve told her a good 



Packing the Missionary Barrel 155 


bit about you, though, of course, I haven’t 
breathed a hint of the readings—nor ever 
will,” she added seriously. 

“ Will quarter after seven be early enough, 
and shall I have to let you know before?” 

Emma Clara said the time would do very 
well, and that there was no need of letting 
her know before that time. “If you ain’t 
here at seven-twenty at the very latest, I’ll 
know you’re not coming,” she said. “Now, 
I’ll fly about lively and make supper early. 
See you later,” said good-bye, and went down 
the neat path, through the gate and out on 
the highway, while Emma Clara bustled about 
her preparations, singing as she went, and the 
clear sweet tones sounded pleasantly in Betsy’s 
ears as she walked slowly along in the late 
afternoon sunshine. 

“She’s just as sweet as she can be,” she 
thought warmly. “And she does know a lot 
about housework and birds and—and—all 
sorts of real things. But she doesn’t just 
understand once in a while.” 

She loitered along, thinking with great 
satisfaction of the turn matters had taken. 
She was looking forward hopefully now to 



156 


Betsy Hale 


the fulfilment of each desire she had. But 
she somehow felt, as many older people have 
done, that the good things which were to 
come were still dependent on her own act— 
on her own goodness. She forgot that a great 
many other things were working towards the 
inevitable end—her mother’s health and in¬ 
clinations, the success of the book and many 
other important items. 

“If I’m just good and true ,” she thought, 
with a little thrill, “It will all come right, 
I am sure.” 

She was not conceited. Not at all. She 
was only tremendously in earnest and her 
earnestness was centering on the wrong spot. 
She was one of those who must enter heartily 
into any endeavor, and even then are barely 
content with the results. 

She crossed the fields to the winding road, 
meaning to reach the Wee Corner from the 
back. She had plenty of time, since her 
mother had told her to stay out as long as she 
pleased, knowing how eager Sally was for the 
spring scents and sounds. 

The thicket beyond the bushes was waking 
to life. The bare twigs still showed, but 




Packing the Missionary Barrel 157 


a light veil of faintest green was flung 
over them, with here and there a haze of 
reddish bloom. It was drowsing out of the 
winter sleep into a hint of summer beauty. 
A bird swung a clear, liquid note across the 
soft murmurings of the air in the branches—• 
a jeweled brilliant flash of song. 

Betsy stopped at the hedgerow, halted by 
the throb of melody. She saw the brown 
bird as its wings fluttered away into the 
thicket, and her heart sang, too. 

‘Til just go in a little way,” she thought. 
“Perhaps if I sit very still he’ll sing again.” 

She picked her way carefully, reveling in 
the sense of exploration so novel to her, 
town-bred as she was. She passed a little 
dry hollow and found a gray-green lichened 
stone, where, pulling her skirts about her, she 
sat down to wait and hope. In her dull brown 
suit she might have been a wood sprite or a 
creature of the brown, quickening forest, so 
well did she match the coloring about her. 

She sat very still for what seemed to her a 
long time. She could hear sounds from across 
the road and highway, dimmed and muffled 
by distance, but she was too much concerned 



158 


Betsy Hale 


about the bird to heed them. She waited 
tensely. 

A rabbit scurried past and made her start. 

Then a bird, perhaps the very bird she 
waited for, flew into the branches above her 
and eyed her inquisitively. It chirped and 
called, but it did not sing. Presently it flew 
away in alarm. There was a sound of crack¬ 
ling twigs from the other side of the clump of 
bushes where Betsy was hidden, and the bird 
fled before the sound. 

Betsy’s heart stood still. She thought of 
all the tales of robbers and outlaws she had 
ever read, and, although the chimneys of the 
Wee Corner might have been visible to her 
through the tree-tops had she looked, she sat 
staring towards the growing sound and began 
to be rather frightened. 

The footsteps were light and quick. They 
came directly toward her hiding place as 
though the newcomer were familiar with the 
thicket. Suddenly they stopped with a 
rustling and crackling and then there was 
silence. Betsy waited breathlessly. Her 
courage came to her in a rush. She did not 
move, but sat and waited. Was the intruder 



Packing the Missionary Barrel 159 


peering at her from behind the bushes? Was 
he crouching for a spring? She shut her lips 
in a firm line and waited. 

The moments seemed to drag into hours, 
and then—what was it? It sounded like a 
sob, and Betsy sat up, straining her ears. 
Hark, there it was again! 

A low sound of stifled weeping. There 
could be no doubt about it. Some one was 
crying there beyond the bushes. Not out 
loud, but in low, shaken spasms of grief that 
cut to the heart. 

Betsy rose swiftly with her whole being 
alive with sympathy, and she softly pushed 
aside the twigs that interposed. She could 
see indistinctly, but there could be no mis¬ 
take about what she saw. 

In the little dry hollow a boy was crouched 
with his head on his arms. A boy, and cry¬ 
ing like that! 

Betsy caught her breath, though she did not 
stir. Oh, how dreadfully he must feel, to 
be crying like that! Who could it be? She 
leaned silently nearer, parting the twigs 
noiselessly. The boy turned his head ever 
so little, and she saw. It was Philip, bright. 



160 


Betsy Hale 


laughing, teasing Philip, sobbing his heart 
out among the dead leaves of last year. 

Betsy stood abashed, as though she had 
spied on sacred mysteries. She let the twigs 
spring back into place and stood with her 
hands straining and her face tense, trying to 
think of some way to comfort him. “Oh, 
I wish I could help him,” she thought in a 
panic of helplessness. “I wish he didn’t have 
to cry like that.” 

Even as she was thinking this, the sounds 
ceased, and then she heard the light footsteps 
hurrying off in the direction they had come, 
leaving behind them a great silence and a 
sense of loss. 

A passion of sympathy shook Betsy. She 
had been a solitary child, in spite of the 
tender bond between her gifted parents and 
herself, and she could understand how Philip 
felt. 

“Only I didn’t think he could cry like 
that,” she repeated with a hard lump in her 
own throat at the memory. “I wonder who 
made him do it?” 

She went slowly out of the thicket. She 
had forgotten the bird that lured her there. 



Packing the Missionary Barrel 161 


She could not think of anything save Philip’s 
grief. But presently slanting shafts of 
sunshine reached her from the hill and she 
looked about with growing interest again. 
After all, the world was very beautiful. It 
was more beautiful now than when she had 
gone into the thicket. Perhaps it was the 
contrast between the cloud of Philip’s grief 
and the gay lances of golden sunshine. 

She did not forget Philip, though she said 
no word about him to her mother when she 
finally went in doors. She had to get per¬ 
mission to go to the barrel packing, and there 
was some discussion as to the propriety of 
a donation from the Wee Corner that took up 
a great deal of time and interest. Mrs. 
Hale had to unpack a trunk and wrap the 
large package carefully while Sally hurried 
into her best frock, which was so much like 
her everyday one that she might have saved 
herself the trouble. 

When Betsy arrived at the Simpson door 
she found Emma Clara ready and waiting, 
with a large bundle of her own that matched 
Betsy’s and that brought a sudden fear to 
Betsy’s heart. 


11 



162 


Betsy Hale 


“Oh, have you a suit, too?” she asked in 
consternation. “Perhaps I’d better not take 
this-” 

Emma Clara interrupted eagerly. “Have 
you a suit—a whole suit?” she asked. 
“Really a suit—for a man?” 

Betsy nodded proudly. “It’s a nice new 
one, too,” she enlarged. “It’s black, and it 
has a tail coat, like ministers wear. Father 
only wore it once to a wedding reception. He 
was best man. Mother said to tell them she 
sent it with great pleasure.” 

“The Ladies’ Aid will be pleased,” re¬ 
sponded Emma Clara, heartily. “They’ve 
been wanting a suit, but no one’s been able 
to scare one up. They had to have a good 
one, you know. But, perhaps,” and her face 
fell, “your father was a small man. This 
missionary is a regular big one—*—” 

It was Betsy’s turn to break in. “Father 
was six feet one inch tall,” she declared 
proudly. “He was a regular big one, too.” 

“Then it’s all as it should be,” said Emma 
Clara, rejoicing again. “We’d better be off, 
though, or we’ll be late. The services begin 
sharp seven-thirty.” 








OH, HAVE YOU A SUIT, TOO ? 


















Packing the Missionary Barrel 163 


They reached the frame addition to the 
little church, where the Sunday-school met 
and where all the various meetings of the 
church workers were held, just as the first 
hymn was being sung, and they had to slip 
in quietly choosing the nearest seats, for the 
president of the Ladies’ Aid, kind Mrs. 
Worthington, was rather nervously preparing 
to read the prayers. 

Betsy gave herself up to the simple service 
with all her heart. The bulky bundle by her 
chair added not a little to her comfort, it is 
true, but she responded to the appeal of the 
spirit of the hour with a quickened memory 
of that grievous sorrowing figure of Philip 
in the wood. The hymns touched her more 
deeply, the prayers went closer to her soul 
than ever before. The sense of spiritual 
needs grew in her. She was very, very 
serious. 

After the formal part was over, it was rather 
a let-down to find the ladies so brisk and 
chatty. 

The suit had been examined, pronounced 
just the thing, and a suitable message of 
warm thanks had been proposed, and every¬ 
thing was cozy and sociable. 



164 


Betsy Hale 


Betsy sat quietly or stood politely handing 
articles to the packers when they needed 
her services. She was deft and silent. Her 
mind was not on the outer world. She could 
not help, however, hearing all that went on. 
The chat was brisker than the packing, and, 
as tea and cake was to be served before the 
party broke up, there was a social spirit 
abroad unloosing the tongues and thoughts of 
the ladies to an unwonted degree. 

“I hear Mrs. Bond has promised to come 
to the Fair,” volunteered Mrs. Harris, folding 
an unbleached muslin night-dress. “ Jenny 
Parsons says it’s all because of that sickly 
Helen having taken a whim. Well, it’s an 
ill wind that blows nobody good. We’ll be 
richer for it, or I’m much mistaken.” 

This news was received with much interest. 
“It’s Jenny’s second trip to the Shrubberies,” 
said another lady when she could be heard. 
“She’s keeping right on with it, I suppose?” 

Mrs. Harris shook her head. “Jenny’s not 
there now,” she replied, pursing her lips. 
“She couldn’t get on with Helen, so Mrs. 
Bond sent her off. Jenny wanted to stay. 
It wasn’t her fault, poor girl, but that Helen 



Packing the Missionary Barrel 165 


said she wouldn’t have a stone image about 
her unless it was a mighty good-looking one. 
So they sent Jenny off.” 

“Dear me, that’s the second girl in two 
weeks, isn’t it?” asked gentle Mrs. Bean. 
“And Jenny is well meaning, though she is 
a little, just a little, solid. I can’t say I’ve 
ever heard her say two words myself.” 

The talk drifted on about Mrs. Bond and 
Helen and the way they wasted things at the 
Shrubberies. “ Lights lighted in all the rooms, 
no matter if there ain’t a soul there,” said 
Mrs. Giles, now becoming rather gloomy. 
“And them fellows in short pants with fancy 
coats standin’ about idle all the day long. 
It ain’t scriptural, no, that it ain’t. No 
wonder that cantakerous Helen’s a half cripple 
like she is.” 

Betsy, listening with surprise, wondered at 
the vigor of the speech. Surely Mrs. Giles 
had forgotten the large contributions which 
had been part of the gossip about Mrs. 
Bond. She wanted to speak, but she bit her 
lip and kept silent. Resentment was rising 
within her, though, and it needed but a 
touch of flame into fire. Truth must out. 



166 


Betsy Hale 


Crushed to the earth, it was sure to rise 
again. 

“That Philip Meade’s come back again, 
I see,” said Mrs. Dunn, carelessly. “He’s 
the same as ever, though they do say his 
father can’t last the week out.” 

“I never saw a boy with less heart,” agreed 
Miss Wilson. “He’s on the grin all the day. 
I’ve no patience with him.” 

“He seems a very nice boy to me,” gently 
interposed little Mrs. Bean. She was a new¬ 
comer to the village and was much respected 
because of her good furniture and pretty 
clothes. 

Betsy held her breath. Someone would 
take up Philip’s cause, surely. But there 
was only the silence that had so maddened 
her before. The ladies primly shut their 
lips, leaving all sorts of dire things to be 
imagined. 

The accusing, ominous silence went to 
Betsy’s head. Philip heartless? Philip not 
grieving for his father? And she had seen 
him not over two hours ago his heart break¬ 
ing, weeping alone! 

She turned on the circle with flaming 



Packing the Missionary Barrel 167 


cheeks and her words choked in her throat, 
so eager were they to be out. 

“Oh!” she cried. “Oh, how can you? 
How can you say he is heartless? It isn’t 
fair to condemn people unless you know. 
Philip isn’t half so mean as you seem to 
think he is. Most of the village boys are a 
lot worse than he.” Swept along by her 
rage for truth and pity for Philip she forgot 
to tell the story of the sorrow she knew was 
darkening the boy’s days while he bravely 
hid it from sight; she forgot the right way to 
their sympathy, and boldly she flung her 
firebrands among them. “All of the village 
boys are worse,” she declared hotly, before 
anyone could recover. “The Freeman boys 
go with the tough railway gang, and that 
Harper boy sneaks candy from the lunch- 
woman at school-” 

A rustle and angry cough interrupted her. 
The smiling circle flashed into indignation. 

Someone put a gentle arm about Betsy and 
drew her into the little darkened library. 
Betsy could remember the snuffy smell of the 
books for a long while afterward. “ I wouldn’t 
say any more, my dear,” murmured Mrs. 




168 


Betsy Hale 


Bean’s kind voice. “It is very hard, I know, 
but it’s better not to say anything more. 
Run home, like a good girl, and I’ll explain 
to the ladies that you didn’t mean to be 
unkind.” 

Betsy was too bewildered to protest. She 
slipped into her coat which had been put with 
the other wraps in the little room, and with 
a murmur which Mrs. Bean seemed to under¬ 
stand, she opened the door and stepped out 
into the peaceful night. The surge of feeling 
that had been so hot and tumultuous slowly 
subsided as she walked alone under the 
distant quiet stars, but she walked home with 
a firm and elastic tread. 

“It was the truth,” she thought, obsti¬ 
nately. “It was the real, real truth.” 

But she did not tell her mother what had 
happened, nevertheless. 



CHAPTER X 


Mrs. Delaney s Advice 


S OMETHING oi the glow of last night’s 
resolution came back to Betsy when she 
saw the note pinned to the shed door. 
Jimmy had not yet appeared for his duties 
to the coal buckets, and she recognized the 
scrawled, half-printed hand on the scrap of 
paper as his. Once or twice before when he 
had been obliged to be late he had sent a 
comrade with such a missive. This note, 
however, was not so reassuring. It was very 
brief. 

“I hav a nother engagment. No more 
coal from 

“youres truly 

“J. Delaney. 

“P. S. —You got too big eys for me. I ant 
a thief.” 


Here was another proof that Betsy’s thirst 
for the absolute truth was not popular. Her 

( 169 ) 


170 


Betsy Hale 


preachings had been too much for the lively 
Jimmy, added to her constant watch upon his 
movements while he was doing his work at 
the Wee Corner. Betsy began to feel like a 
sort of martyr to the cause. Irritation at 
Jimmy’s delinquency made her overlook her 
own lack of charitableness. She ground the 
coffee with a snap that brought the color to 
her cheeks. 

“He’s just horrid,” she said sharply. But 
she did not show the note to her mother when 
she came down. She told her the bare fact 
that Jimmy was not coming and offered to 
go over to Delaneys after breakfast to find 
out his mother’s views on the matter. 

Mrs. Hale was too happily absorbed in 
poaching eggs for the toast that Betsy was 
making to care much about the matter of 
Jimmy. “It’s pretty late in the season for 
the dining-room heater, anyway,” she said 
absently. “Perhaps it would be good exer¬ 
cise for me to try to keep the kitchen fire 
supplied.” 

Her cheeks were unnaturally flushed and 
her eyes looked very large and bright, but, 
nevertheless, Betsy felt uneasy at such a 



Mrs. Delaney’s Advice 


171 


suggestion. And Mrs. Hale herself seemed 
to realize that Jimmy was a necessity, for a 
while at least. “I suppose it wouldn’t do 
for me,” she added, quickly. “We need 
bread, too, so perhaps it will be best for you 
to run over directly after breakfast. Mrs. 
Delaney said she would be baking this morn¬ 
ing, and she’s always very early.” 

That settled it, and Betsy felt that the 
sanction of authority was on her errand. She 
set out with a comfortable feeling that she 
was going to do her mother’s behest rather 
well. 

She bungled her mission, however, for 
instead of merely asking whether Jimmy’s 
decision was approved by his mother, she got 
tangled up in her own views on the matter, 
ending by going rather too deeply into her 
knowledge of Jimmy’s private life. She was 
all the more emphatic because Mrs. Delaney 
kept very quiet and seemed to withhold her 
judgment. 

“He’s always with the railway gang, just 
like the Freeman boys; I heard Mr. Simpson 
say so. And he said, too, that Jimmy was in 
a fair way to be a good-for-nothing if some- 



172 


Betsy Hale 


one didn’t stop him, that you ought to have 
an eye on his tricks,” she declared, ending 
with a flushed face and quickened breath. 
“It’s the truth, and you ought to know it!” 

Mrs. Delaney, contrary to her custom, was 
very silent. Her broad, kind face was paler 
than usual and she held her mouth tight at 
the corners. When Betsy finished and stood 
quivering for an answer, she roused herself 
with a flash of real rage. 

“And ye call that the truth?” she de¬ 
manded in a tone Betsy had never heard 
before. “Truth is it, thin? It’s a gran’ 
name ye’re givin’ it. Tale-bearin’s a better 
word fer it. Ye’re a meddlin’ little tattle¬ 
tale.” 

She stopped so suddenly that Betsy started. 
She had been holding herself tense in the 
moment of the outburst and she thought worse 
was yet to come. She braced herself, though 
her heart chilled within her. 

Mrs. Delaney was very silent. The alarm 
clock on the shelf over the table ticked very 
loud, and the crackling of the wood in the 
range sounded tremendous. Gradually a 
change came over the broad Irish face. A 



Mrs. Delaney’s Advice 


173 


kinder expression came into the little brilliant 
eyes, and the mouth relaxed into its usual 
easy curve, though a great seriousness was 
behind them all. 

She put out a hand to Betsy. “ Never 
mind, colleen. I was scarin’ ye with me 
tempers, wasn’t I? I was a bit hasty. 
Though it’s well fer me that ye spoke up as 
ye did, puttin’ me onto Jimmy’s ways, 
though it’s tumble hard on you, fer meddlin’ 
in other folks’ pies is a nasty business anny 
way ye take it. But you’re a lone bit of a 
thing, with your books and your typewriter 
machines and niver a child to play about 
with and to knock the nonsense out of your 
precious head.” 

The note of kindness melted Betsy at once. 
Tears of contrition rushed to her eyes, though 
she kept them back bravely. “I’m sorry I 
made you cross; indeed I am,” she said very 
earnestly. “I didn’t mean to say that about 
Jimmy when I started. But,” she added with 
a touch of the zeal that had brought her into 
trouble, “it really is better for you to know. 
His soul is of more importance than any¬ 
thing else, isn’t it?” 



174 


Betsy Hale 


Mrs. Delaney was moved, too, and her 
large warm hand covered Betsy’s cold little 
one. She spoke slowly, as though to impress 
her words on her hearer’s mind. 

“You see, machree, it’s ticklish wurr-rk— 
this steerin’ other folks’ gear,” she said 
kindly. “It takes two to make it go. 
You’ve got to be turrible understandin’— 
that’s one. And the other crayter has got 
to be ekilly understanding or there’ll be a 
mess o it. 

Betsy recalled the Barrel Packing with 
growing misgivings, as her friend went on. 

“An’ one more thing. Are ye sure of yer 
aim? Ye kin fire away at the sinners, but 
mayhap ye’ll be hittin’ them in the wrong 
place. Ye’v got to see yer mark good and 
clear and make no mistake about it. Aimin' 
at the sin ain’t all easy wark, for, mark ye, 
ye’v only the outside view of it to guide ye. 
Ye say to yersel’, ‘it’s that bad action’s the 
bull’s-eye fer me,’ and ye blaze away like all 
creation. But do you hit the mark? Ah, 
it’s seldom enough—seldom enough. And for 
why, think ye?” 

Betsy, beginning to have a glimmer, was 
not sure enough. She shook her head. 



Mrs. Delaney’s Advice 


175 


"It’s becuse ye’v chose the wrong bull’s- 
eye,” said Mrs. Delaney, growing more earnest 
every minute. “Ye’v took the actions to 
aim at, and it’s the gineral way; but the 
onlyest spot that can be hit is the Secret 
Heart of them.” She paused dramatically. 
“The Secret Heart of them. Just that.” 

Betsy drew a long breath, but did not 
■speak. She wanted to hear it all. And, 
beside, she was rather husky in her throat. 

“ ’Tis the Secret Heart as rules us all, 
God save us,” Mrs. Delaney said, softly. 
“Poor though we may be, or homely as mud, 
in our secret hearts we’re all a-believin’ that 
we’re somethin’ else—somethin’ grander and 
better than we’ll ever be. Think on that, 
machree. Yer young, and by that token hard 
on the sins. You see the outside, and ye 
say ’tis black, wicked. Ah, if ye cud take a 
peep into that secret heart inside, you might 
wait a bit before you shot yer bolt. Try 
speedin’ it with kindness to hit the mark, 
instid of scolding, and send it wingin’ to the 
aim with a bit of love and a bit of hope and a 
bit of trust in the Great Feyther of us all.” 

Betsy caught both of the warm, w^ork-wom 




176 


Betsy Hale 


hands in her own. “Oh, Mrs. Delaney, how 
beautiful!” she said, low and breathless from 
emotion. “I never thought of it like that. 
Oh, I’m so sorry to have said what I did!” 

Mrs. Delaney squeezed her fingers hard, 
and then patted her on the shoulder. “Say 
no more of that, machree,” she replied with 
her smile breaking out. “We’ve both larned 
something we shan’t forget in a hurry. Ye’v 
said the words of sorrow and that wipes the 
slate between us. ’Tis a poor crayter that 
won’t take the regrets of a friend. And now, 
yer bread’s ready fer ye and me pies is cryin’ 
out to be in the oven. So go long with ye, 
and me respects to yer ma. Mind ye tell her 
nawthin’ of the little chat we’ve been havin’ 
—it’s a private and personal topic, ye mind.” 

Betsy was only too glad to promise, and she 
went down the hill with her bread, feeling 
that she had come into a new kingdom. 

“The Secret Heart,” she whispered, as she 
stopped to watch the stream hurrying between 
its green banks. “The Secret Heart—oh, 
how beautiful it sounds. Like a piece of 
poetry or a fairy tale.” 

She looked back over her zealous truth- 



Mrs. Delaney’s Advice 


177 


telling and the memory was not pleasing now. 
How hard she had been aiming at the out¬ 
side, and how little she had thought of those 
other people’s feelings! She fairly shuddered 
at her own blindness, now that Mrs. Delaney 
had made her see. If she could only take it 
all back. Wait—there should be some way 
to make amends. She could come on it if 
only she had time enough. 

She sat down on the parapet of the bridge, 
hugging the warm bundle of good-smelling 
bread, prepared to spend a long while in 
thought, when the last words of the hearty 
Irishwoman came back to her strongly— 
“The word of sorrow wipes the slate between 
us. . . . ’Tis a poor crayter that won’t 
take the regrets of a friend.” 

That was it. She must say those words 
of sorrow to each one she had wronged. 
It was the only amends in her power. 
“Though I’m not exactly a friend of any of 
them,” she thought doubtfully. “Except, 
of course, like everybody’s friends at church.” 

The plan formed quickly as she was walk¬ 
ing briskly home. She would finish her les¬ 
sons, then go on her penitential rounds of. 



178 


Betsy Hale 


calls. She must apologize to at least four 
people—Mrs. Giles, because she had flung 
those hot words directly at that worthy 
lady; Mrs. Bean, because she longed to set 
herself right with the gentle means of her 
escape from further damage; Mrs. Freeman 
and Mrs. Harper, on the score of the accusa¬ 
tions against their sons. She sighed as she 
faced the prospect, but she was not made of 
the stuff that falters before a duty that has 
been made plain. 

She got through her lesson and then 
hurried off towards the village, hope rising 
within her at every step. Things were always 
easier once one began to do them. The 
round of calls did not seem half so formidable 
to her now that she was really started. 

It was not hard to find Mrs. Giles. A 
sound of wheezy coughing at the back of her 
little house led Betsy directly to her. Mrs. 
Giles was emptying a feather bed into a 
new ticking, and she stood in a whirl of tiny 
white feathers, like a private snowstorm. 
She looked up as Betsy approached. 

“Ah, it’s you,” was all that she said. 
The feathers made her wheeze too much for 




Mrs. Delaney’s Advice 


179 


speech. She did not look half so imposing 
in the white dustcap as she did in the black 
braid bonnet with the pansies on it. 

Betsy plunged at once into the heart of 
things. “I’ve come to say I am very sorry 
to have been so—so rude last night,” she said 
valiantly. “It was very wrong of me to 
speak that way.” 

Mrs. Giles seemed to have expected some¬ 
thing quite different. She straightened up, 
with the tick held tight, and peered at Betsy 
from her little cloud of white feathers. Her 
face was all puckered with puzzled lines. 

“What did you say?” she asked. 

Betsy repeated her little speech. She felt 
rather odd, being stared at like that. 

“Ah, indeed, indeed,” was all that Mrs. 
Giles said at first, and then as her mind came 
more away from the feather bed and got a 
clearer idea of Betsy’s intention in coming 
to see her, a queer, twisted, kinky smile 
made its way to her eyes and then to her 
mouth, and finally she chuckled outright, 
nodding a great many times in a pleased way. 

“That is as it should be—as it should be,” 
she said to herself. “An impudent child 





180 


Betsy Hale 


should pay up. Did your mother tell you 
to say that, or did she just send you here?” 

4< Oh, she doesn’t know anything about it,” 
protested Betsy, pained at the thought. “I 
came myself, because I was sorry to have 
spoken so. I-” 

44 You came of your own accord?” asked 
Mrs. Giles, rather skeptically. “Are you 
sure your mother didn’t send you, child? 
Young ones ain’t quick to cry shame on 
themselves that-a-way—not to my knowl¬ 
edge and belief.” 

Betsy made her understand how it was at 
last, and then Mrs. Giles, smiling her twisted 
smile, laid down her feather bed on the wash- 
bench by the kitchen door, and brought 
Betsy into the most spotless kitchen that 
could be dreamed of, and gave her three 
cookies out of a big stone crock behind the 
stove. “For acting like a Christian for 
once,” she explained. They were very good 
friends after that, particularly when Betsy 
admired the shining state of the stove wherein 
she saw her own face as in a mirror. 

“I guess I am a bit stove-proud,” confessed 
Mrs. Giles, melting still more to her. 44 But 




Mrs. Delaney’s Advice 


181 


we all have our fancies—we all have our 
fancies. Tell me how you folks get along 
without hired help?” she asked abruptly. 
“I hear your mama is mighty poorly. Is she 
right sickly, or just ailing? She ain’t about 
much in the town, so’s one can see for them¬ 
selves, you know. I guess she’ll join the 
Ladies’ Aid and the Pastor’s Circle after a 
bit, won’t she?” 

She seemed to have no interest whatever 
in poor Philip and as Betsy could not tell her 
of the scene in the thicket she had to be 
content to answer the questions as best she 
could, and then, with other errands and the 
lateness of the morning as an excuse, to say 
her farewells as promptly as possible. 

Mrs. Giles went out to her feather bed 
again and said good-bye in the same little 
private snow storm as before. “Come in 
and see me again,” she called after Betsy 
as she closed the gate. “Tell your mama 
I’m coming right over soon’s I have time. 
I ain’t much of a caller, though.” 

Betsy escaped with a feeling as of a great 
ordeal over. She went next to the Freemans 
and to Harpers, where she had the good 



182 


Betsy Hale 


fortune to find both ladies at home, since it 
was still, in spite of Betsy’s excuses to Mrs. 
Giles, quite early. Mrs. Freeman was, like 
Mrs. Giles, surprised and puzzled at first, 
but she soon forgot to wonder at Betsy’s 
coming in her interest as to how much Betsy 
knew of the Harper boy’s delinquencies. It 
was almost as hard to evade her questions 
as it was to escape from the same sort of 
catechism as to the Freeman boys when she 
found Mrs. Harper at the sweet-pea beds 
where she was dropping the withered seed 
into the warm earth. Betsy had to hurry off 
with a very short call there, for Mrs. Harper 
was a stronger character than any of the 
others and she had a way with her that was 
very determined. 

It was a relief to come to Mrs. Bean’s 
pretty house. “She’ll be nice and com¬ 
fortable,” thought Betsy, remembering the 
soft voice and hands. “I do hope she is 
home.” 

Mrs. Bean was at home, and welcomed her 
visitor with a pretty grace that matched her 
furniture and clothes. “We won’t say any 
more about it, my dear,” she told Betsy, when 



Mrs. Delaney’s Advice 


183 


the first words were said. “You see your 
mistake and that’s quite enough, I think. 
You are coming to the Fair, I suppose. If 
you aren’t already bespoken, I’d like you to 
be one of my aids. I have the Flower Basket 
—an idea of my own—and I need two aids. 
Selma Worthington is to be one, if she gets 
home in time. I am so glad,” she added with 
a light on her face, “that I wasn’t mistaken, 
though, in Philip Meade. He reminded me 
so much of a dear boy I used to know—” 
and she seemed to forget Betsy in some 
memory that brought tears to her eyes and a 
flush to her withered cheeks, and then, in 
another tone, she explained the duties of the 
aids and finally sent Betsy on her way, happier 
than she had dreamed of being so soon. 

How delightfully it was all coming out! 

“It’s just as Mrs. Delaney said,” thought 
Betsy as she went her way. “ They aren’t any 
of them so criss-cross as they were last night. 
It was my fault, of course.” 

Emma Clara received her with her usual 
kindness. It was evident that with her once 
a friend meant always a friend. She had not 
a hint of reproach for Betsy’s escapade of the 



184 


Betsy Hale 


night before. When the story of the calls 
was ended, she surprised Betsy not a little 
by giving her a hearty kiss. 

“That’s the way to behave,” she said, 
patting Betsy’s shoulder. “If you’ve done 
anything amiss, say you’re sorry and have 
done with it,” and so she dismissed the sub¬ 
ject, much to Betsy’s comfort. 

“I’ll have to run now, for Mother will be 
waiting for the mail and the stage was up 
long ago,” said Betsy, feeling more comfort¬ 
able all the time. 

Emma Clara waved her a cheery farewell 
and Betsy kept turning and waving a response 
till she was out of sight over the brow of the 
hill. She felt very comfortable indeed now. 

“It’s wonderful how nice people are when 
one takes them the right way, she thought 
as she went towards the store. “I’m going 
to try being nice to Jimmy, too. I guess I’ve 
been pretty hard on him.” 

There was no mail except the morning 
paper, and she ran home, hoping to find her 
mother in the garden. Mrs. Hale was not 
there, nor was she in the sunny kitchen, and 
just as Betsy gained the dining-room a sound 



Mrs. Delaney’s Advice 


185 ‘ 


of something falling shook the flooring above 
her head. It came from the little back room 
which was used for a bathroom. Someone 
had dropped something very heavy, or-. 

Betsy did not stop to think. She fled 
through the sitting-room and up the stairs 
in a sudden panic of fear. 

“ Oh, Mother! ” she called. “ Mother, where 
are you?” 




CHAPTER XI 


The Darkest Hour is Just Before 

Dawn 

M RS. HALE was half sitting, half 
lying on the bathroom floor when 
Betsy burst in upon her. Her face 
was very pale, though she smiled up at her 
frightened daughter very reassuringly. 

“I must have been rather giddy,” she 
explained faintly. “I think I fell down when 
I was turning to leave the room. Pm quite 
myself now, though. I can get up very 
nicely, you see,” and disdaining Betsy’s out¬ 
stretched hands, she rose and walked a few 
steps in a decidedly wobbly manner. 

Betsy was very badly frightened. Even 
the sight of her mother on her feet did not 
compose her. She had never seen anyone 
faint before, and she was shocked and trem¬ 
bling, so that she could scarcely speak. She 
made a valiant effort to insist on her mother 
taking rest before going down to luncheon 

( 186 ) 




The Darkest Hour 


187, 


which was nearly ready, but she was hardly 
able to control her own voice and Mrs. 
Hale was not to be plead with. 

“I’ll feel better when I’ve had some coffee 
and toast,” she declared, and so there was 
nothing for Betsy to do but acquiesce. 

She watched her very anxiously, however, 
until she was in her chair at the head of the 
table, and then she hurried the luncheon on as 
quickly as possible. Her mother made a 
pretense of eating, declaring that she was 
quite herself again, and that she should go 
out of doors at once. The sunshine, she 
thought, would finish her cure. 

Betsy helped her on with the loose coat that 
she usually wore and saw her out to the sum¬ 
mer house, where she sat down on one of the 
chairs they had left there. She looked much 
paler out there in the bright light, although 
she said she was feeling much better. Betsy 
left her with many misgivings and she looked 
out of the window many times during the 
dish-washing to assure herself that she was 
still there. 

The last time that she looked, just as she 
was putting away the very last dish, the chair 



188 


Betsy Hale 


was empty and her mother was lying in a 
crumpled heap on the grass before the sum¬ 
mer house. She had fainted again. 

It was a more serious matter this time. 

Betsy had to summon all her efforts to rouse 
her, and when she had finally come to herself 
enough to be led into the house, she sank 
dazed and bewildered on the carpet lounge in 
the sitting-room with such a blank and suffer¬ 
ing look on her face that Betsy was beside 
herself. 

“Oh, what shall I do?” she cried in despair. 
“Oh, please, tell me what to do!” 

Mrs. Hale groaned and faltered out the 
doctor’s name. 

“But I can’t leave you like this!” cried 
poor Betsy. “Oh, what shall I do? What 
shall I do?” 

A knocking at the back door seemed the 
answer. She flew to open it to E mm a Clara 
Simpson, whose fresh, smiling face was the 
best sight that the distracted Betsy could 
have seen. She fairly dragged her friend 
into the sitting-room, where her mother was 
still sitting in that dazed state. 

“Stay with her, oh, please stay with her 



The Darkest Hour 


189 


while I run for the doctor,” she panted, and 
before another word was said, she was away 
with the speed of the wind. 

The doctor’s house was on the other side 
of the village and as she ran up the hilly 
road, taking a short cut across the fields, she 
came to the gate just as the doctor was 
emerging from the house. A few breathless 
words told him her errand, and they were 
soon chugging along the road back to the 
Wee Corner. 

How short a distance it seemed in spite of 
her great anxiety. She was in the house 
before the doctor had gotten his case from 
beneath the seat to follow her. She flew into 
the sitting-room to find it empty, and, for¬ 
getting everything else, she hurried up-stairs 
filled with unformed dread. 

The door of her mother’s room was ajar and 
she went in. 

Emma Clara in her fresh blue dress sat 
by the bed, gently rubbing Mrs. Hale’s 
hands and smoothing down the covers over 
the light form that showed so slight and 
fragile under the covers. Everything was 
calm and quiet and composed. Mrs. Hale 



190 


Betsy Hale 


smiled weakly at Betsy and would have spoken 
if Emma Clara had not signed to her. 

“ She’s quite comfortable now,” she told 
Betsy. “I got hot water bags to her feet and 
some hot milk for her and she’s beginning to 
feel pretty good.” 

She stopped at the sight of the doctor’s 
figure in the doorway, and rising in some 
confusion, would have slipped out had he 
not motioned her to stay. 

Betsy was the one who went down-stairs. 
She slipped away very thankfully with her 
heart full of gratitude to Emma Clara and 
the doctor, who both seemed to know just 
what to do and how to do it. Her beloved 
mother was in good hands, she knew, and 
though she was still in an agony of anxiety, 
she sat herself down on the lounge and waited 
very patiently for the doctor to come down¬ 
stairs. 

He came in a surprisingly short time. He 
shook hands with Betsy in a mechanical way 
and then looked sharply at her. 

“Have you no older person in the family?” 
he asked. “You seem very young.” 

“I am nearly fourteen,” answered Betsy 
doubtfully. “There isn’t anyone else.” 



The Darkest Hour 


191 


He shook his head. “Well, then, I must 
give my instructions to you,” he told her 
with a tinge of reluctance in his manner. 
“Your mother is not very ill—remember 
that and don’t get frightened. But she is 
run down and tired and she must have— 
absolutely must have rest and building up. 
You must see to it that she has this tonic and 
gets plenty of fresh eggs and good steak. 
She is not to be worried about anything. 
Not under any consideration,” he repeated 
emphatically, “is she to be worried. Put 
that typewriter of her’s away where she 
can’t even see it, and make her keep out of 
doors.” 

He paused, looking more kindly at Betsy’s 
intent face. “It’s a tough job for one of 
your years, but you look as though you had 
plenty of grit,” he said, drawing on his gloves. 
“See that you do as I say, and if you are in 
doubt about anything come to me.” 

He was off before she could recover enough 
to ask any questions. She went over to the 
desk and got out a tablet and wrote down 
every word he had said, even the sentence 
about herself. She wanted to be very 
accurate. 




192 


Betsy Hale 


Then she tiptoed up to where Emma Clara 
still sat at the bedside, gently smoothing 
Mrs. Hale’s white hand. It was very peace¬ 
ful there and the sun flecked the white bed 
with little golden dancing lights. Betsy 
kissed her mother softly and then crept down¬ 
stairs. When she was alone her face grew 
very sorrowful. 

“I don’t know how she is to be kept from 
being worried,” she said to herself. “She 
told me yesterday that she could only take 
a week’s vacation because we had spent 
almost everything we had on hand, and she’d 
have to begin writing on her regular work 
as soon as she possibly could.” 

She sat for a while thinking hard, but after 
a little, her thoughts went round and round 
the same circle without getting anywhere, 
like a squirrel in a cage; so she got up and 
went out into the kitchen with a restless hope 
of finding something there that would be 
worth doing. 

A shadow passed the window and she flew 
to the door. She thought it was Philip, but 
it proved to be Jimmy Delaney, with a rather 
sober face and a letter in his hand. 



The Darkest Hour 


193 


“Doc told me she was sick,” he said, hand¬ 
ing over the letter. “So I thought I’d git 
the mail. I know she’s alius lookin’ for it.” 

He was gone before Betsy could speak, but 
she was too much agitated by the stamped 
name on the envelope to think of him just 
then. 

“It’s from the publisher’s she sent the 
book to,” she whispered, and she was going 
up-stairs with it when a sudden fear halted her. 

“If they hadn’t taken it!” she thought. 
“Oh, suppose they hadn’t taken it.” 

No, she must not show it to her mother 
now. She would have to wait. But suppose 
the book was accepted? Her mother ought 
to know it, for it would help to make her 
well. Slowly she came to her decision. “I’ll 
open it,” she said, trembling at her own 
temerity. “If it’s good I’ll tell her and if 
it isn’t I’ll hide it.” 

It took all the courage she had to cut the 
end off the envelope and to draw out the 
sheet. Her hand shook so she could scarcely 
unfold it. 

“Oh, if they’ve only taken it,” she breathed 
and then she braced herself up to look. 


13 



194 


Betsy Hale 


It was a printed form merely acknowledging 
the receipt of the manuscript and assuring 
the writer that it should be given immediate 
attention. Betsy collapsed on the nearest 
chair, laughing a little and crying a little, too, 
in relief. 

“I might have known it,” she said, her 
memory coming to her. “It’s barely reached 
the publishers and I was thinking they’d 
have had time to read all that long lot of 
pages. Oh, dear, how silly I am,” she said, 
but she felt so much more despondent than 
she had been before that she feared to meet 
anyone. 

She longed for poor old Jemima or for the 
sympathetic Mac, and then she bethought 
herself of her other refuge in times of per¬ 
plexity or idleness. Out to the barn she went 
forthwith and climbed into the buggy in the 
dusky, cobwebby silence of the quiet place, 
and she hid her face in her hands. 

4 ‘Oh, dear, what shall we ever do?” she 
said half aloud. “If Mother isn’t to write 
any more till she’s quite, quite well, how are 
we to get along?” 

She raised her head to listen to the squeaking 



The Darkest Hour 


195 


of the mice in the walls. She could think of 
nothing save the doctor’s warning and the 
absolute commands he had laid upon her. 
It was the darkest hour that she had ever 
known. 

A step outside made her start. It was a 
man’s tread and it was very near the closed 
door. 

“Who’s that?” she called sharply. 

All sorts of direful visions rose in her mind. 
It must be the doctor come back because her 
mother was worse, or it might be Mr. Amos 
Atkinson bent on revenge. The very worst 
sort of things were happening to her now. 
She scrambled out of the buggy as best she 
could, but she was not quick enough. 

The big door slid gently open and a man 
stood on the threshold. 



CHAPTER XII 


The Turn of the Long Lane 

W HEN Mr. Eleazer Simpson gently 
pushed the big door open Betsy did 
not realize that her darkest moment 
was over, and that better things were coming 
to her. 

She was too much ashamed of being found 
moping by herself, with red eyes and swollen 
nose, to be glad of Mr. Simpson’s coming. 
“Oh,” she said rather abashed at his gaze, 
“I didn’t know it was you, Mr. Simpson, or 
I shouldn’t have called. I thought it was 
someone else.” 

Mr. Simpson kindly withdrew his gaze 
from her features and fixed them on the buggy. 
“Emma Clara ain’t nowhere about, I s’pose?” 
he asked mildly. ‘ £ Mrs. Holcomb said she seen 
her cornin’ this way a bit ago. I was just 
a-goin’ out by the back way when I heard you 
call out that-away. Didn’t mean to intrude, 
I’m sure.” 


( 196 ) 


The Turn of the Long Lane 197 


“Emma Clara is in the house,” Betsy told 
him as she came toward the door. “Mother 
fainted and she is staying with her for a 
little while. Shall I call her?” 

Mr. Simpson rubbed his whiskers reflec¬ 
tively. He did not seem in a hurry to go. 
“S’pose you don’t want to sell that buggy?” 
he asked carelessly. “Mebbe you’re figurin’ 
on gettin’ a horse yourself, perhaps?” 

Betsy’s heart gave a great leap. “Oh, 
would you want to buy it?” she asked. 
“I—I think we’d like to sell it, for I’m per¬ 
fectly positive we shan’t ever have a horse.” 

Mr. Simpson walked in, and gave the 
buggy an exhaustive examination. He shook 
its wheels and felt its bolts and finally he 
said in a thoughtful tone. “Seems to be in 
pretty good shape. Old Gun, he had it done 
up just before he died. Yes, it’s all right. 
What are you askin’ for it?” 

Betsy was nonplussed. “I’d have to ask 
Mother, I suppose,” she replied, “but I 
don’t believe she’ll know how much to charge 
for it. Don’t you know what it’s worth?” 

Mr. Simpson looked at the buggy and then 
into Betsy’s trustful eyes, and whistled softly. 



198 


Betsy Hale 


It was a trying moment for a man with a 
strong taste for a bargain. 

“Well,” he said, scratching his chin very 
hard, “it’s worth all of twenty dollars as it 
stands. I’d want that much for it if I was 
a-sellin’ it, and I can’t say no fairer.” 

Betsy felt as though she had unearthed a 
gold mine. “Did you say twenty dollars?” 
she asked, merely to reassure herself. 

“Twenty to the dot, and not a cent more,” 
he replied, adding with a tinge of regret, 
“I ain’t a-sayin’ I’d set a price on it for 
anyone and everyone, but to oblige—,” and 
the wave of his hand expressed his regard for 
Betsy’s age and sex. 

It was quite easy to make the other neces¬ 
sary arrangements with him. Betsy promised 
to let him know at once, so soon as she had 
seen her mother and it was agreed that the 
affair should be a secret between them, as 
Mr. Simpson wished to surprise Emma Clara. 
If Mrs. Hale consented he would come for 
it that evening while his daughter was at 
choir practice, and he would leave the money 
in an envelope at the post office the next 
morning. 




The Turn of the Long Lane 199 


“So Emma Clara won’t get on to it,” he 
explained. “That girl’s so cute that she sees 
right through me most of times. And I’m 
right set on her being surprised—I am 
that.” 

It seemed quite a certainty that the buggy 
was to become the property of the Simpsons, 
and Betsy, as she went back to the house, 
was trying hard to brace up her courage to 
simply tell her mother, when she was able to 
hear it, that Mr. Simpson had bought the 
buggy. It was such a tremendous affair to 
her that she was actually trembling again, 
when she met Emma Clara on her way 
through the dining-room. 

“Don’t you fret yourself so,” advised her 
kind friend. “Your mother is going to be 
lots better now. She’s asleep and when she 
wakes up I’ll be over to see you again. We’ll 
have a sort of party in the summer house; 
it’s warm enough, thank goodness, and every¬ 
thing will be as cozy as you’d wish.” 

Betsy thanked her with such a constrained 
air that Emma Clara grew more emphatic. 
“The doctor says it’s a mercy she fainted 
and made an end of it, for if she’d gone on a 



200 


Betsy Hale 


few weeks longer, she’d have been real sick,” 
she told Betsy vigorously. “You must brace 
up and thank your stars she’s no worse. 
It’s only a matter of resting and being fed 
up, the doctor says.” 

Betsy smiled as brightly as she could, but 
she wished that Emma Clara would not look 
at her so closely and she was really glad when 
her friend had gone. She went to the desk 
in the sitting-room and she read over the 
doctor’s instructions very carefully. 

“Not under any consideration is she to be 
worried,” she repeated. 

Then she went up-stairs very softly and 
looked at her sleeping mother. How pretty 
she was, with the fair hair curling about her 
delicate face and the golden lights playing over 
her folded hands. 

“She never cared a snap about it, anyway,” 
thought Betsy. “What’s an old buggy, com¬ 
pared to making her comfortable?” 

As she went down-stairs she made up her 
mind. “I’d rather be a dreadful sinner than 
to have her worry,” she declared, and she sat 
dowm at the desk and wrote a little note to 
Mr. Simpson, which she found a chance to 



The Turn of the Long Lane 201 


slip into the mail-box while Emma Clara, 
acording to agreement, was sitting in the 
summer house with her mother. 

Mrs. Hale seemed so much brighter after 
she was dressed and up that Betsy’s 
first panic soon passed, and, except for her 
brief excursion with the note, she spent a 
pleasant afternoon that seemed all the more 
comfortable by contrast with the black morn¬ 
ing. The thought of what was coming in the 
mail the next morning was very stimulating. 

And, as is often the case, one good thing 
ushered in another. Since the darkest mo¬ 
ment was over, the dawn of hope grew 
brighter and brighter. Two good things 
happened almost at once. 

Philip Meade, who had heard at school of 
Mrs. Hale’s illness, brought a basket of eggs 
and a plump young chicken as a present 
to the invalid, and under the eggs, in the 
very bottom of the basket, Betsy found, after 
he had gone, a well-used copy of “St. Valen¬ 
tine’s Day” with a scrap of paper in it, at 
the place where the Clan Chattan included 
the names of various prominent families. 
“He came from Caithness,” was scribbled on 



202 


Betsy Hale 


it, and Betsy knew Philip w T as indicating Mr. 
Gun, their late tenant. 

She showed the book to her mother and 
Emma Clara, who eagerly suggested that a 
chapter or two might be read—if Mrs. Hale 
could bear it. Mrs. Hale vowed she should 
love it, that she had not read it since she 
was a girl, and so Betsy sat down between 
them with her dull brown sweater tied about 
her shoulders and began the tale of stout 
Harry of the Wynd and the fair Catherine 
Glover. 

It was like a pleasant island after a troubled 
voyage. The island held other treasures, 
however, and they had not got half through 
the second * chapter before the sound of a 
motor made them look up. The Bond 
limousine was stopping at the gate and Mrs. 
Bond was preparing to get out. 

Emma Clara made her escape while the 
footman was holding open the door for his 
mistress to step out of the machine. “I’ll 
be over again afterward,” she whispered as 
she fled. “She ain’t coming to call on me,” 
she said to their protests and she disappeared 
before the stately Mrs. Bond had reached 
the gate. 




The Turn of the Long Lane 203 


To Betsy the half hour of that formal call 
was filled with apprehension. She hardly 
heard what was really passing, and she was 
so relieved when the call was over that she 
slipped away with her little curtsy to meet 
Mrs. Bond at the gate as she was leaving in 
order to say earnestly: 

“Oh, thank you so very, very much for 
not mentioning the coffee. It’s such a very 
particular secret, you see.” 

Mrs. Bond smiled at her in a very gracious 
manner. “Your secrets are quite safe with 
me. Miss Betsy Hale,” she said very kindly. 
“I shall never tell on you, my dear.” 

She passed into her car with another smile, 
and Betsy went back to her mother with a 
light heart. There was some color in Mrs. 
Hale’s cheeks. The little incident had stim¬ 
ulated her. She spoke brightly. “She’s 
quite pleasant and sociable, I’m sure. It will 
be very pleasant to meet some civilized people 
again. I hope the weather proves fine. A 

garden party in May is a problem-” 

“A garden party!” exclaimed Betsy in sur¬ 
prise. “ Who—what-? ” 

Mrs. Hale laughed. “Of course you didn’t 





204 


Betsy Hale 


hear. It was just as she was leaving. She 
will invite us to the garden party she is giving 
on the twenty-first, and she spoke, too, of 
hoping that you would be at the Fair on 
Saturday. She seems to want you to meet 
her daughter/’ 

The presentiment which shot into Betsy’s 
mind at those last words was blotted out in 
the joy of the coming invitation. To go to a 
garden party, to be among flowers and fes¬ 
tivity, to mingle with gay crowds such as 
she imagined at garden parties, was too de¬ 
lightful to allow her to stop to think of Helen 
Bond and her changing entertainers. If she 
were to be selected for the successor of Jenny 
and her kind, she would not think of it now. 

“Oh, Mother, what shall we wear?” she 
asked. “We must be very, very dressy, 
mustn’t we?” 

Mrs. Hale grew thoughtful. “I have 
that fine lace dress I got for that last wed¬ 
ding,” she said. “It could be touched up a 
bit, I suppose. And my last year’s hat is 
just right for it.” 

Betsy, remembering the beauty of the sim¬ 
ple white lace robe which lay folded away in the 



The Turn of the Long Lane 205 


big trunk, and the flat hat with the big rose 
on it, declared that her mother would be per¬ 
fectly ravishingly lovely in it. “You’ll be 
twice as beautiful as anyone there,” she 
declared ardently. 

Mrs. Hale actually blushed atTier ardor. 
“But how about you, Betsy girl?” she said 
doubtfully. “You haven’t anything very 
fresh and——” 

Betsy thought she saw signs of worry 
appearing and hastened to dispel them. “ I’ve 
a perfectly good white dress that I hardly 
wore last summer,” she said bravely. “And 
the new ribbons I got at Christmas will make 
a pretty good belt and tie. Don’t you think,” 
she went on a little wistfully, “that I’d look 
pretty well in the pale blue belt and tie? 
Plenty of girls wear them on white dresses 
and it would make mine look more—more 
stylish .” 

Mrs. Hale laughed at the word. “Is 
that what you’d like, Betsy girl, to look 
stylish?” she asked with amused interest. 
“I didn’t know you cared about such things. 
Your v T hite dress will do well enough for the 
Fair, but I don’t know about it for the 





206 


Betsy Hale 


Garden Party. We’ll have to see about 
that.” 

Emma Clara came back before more could 
be said, and no more was said on the matter. 
The chapter was finished and then Mrs. Hale 
went indoors to escape the growing chill. 
Emma Clara saw her comfortably tucked up 
on the carpet-covered lounge and then she left. 

The day ended very cosily. They had a 
light supper on the tray beside Mrs. Hale’s 
lounge, and then they sat for a while talking 
of many things, pleasant memories and hopes 
for the future, and through it all, though 
Betsy searched for it with care, not a trace of 
the dreaded worry showed itself on her 
mother’s pretty face. It was about a quarter 
to nine o’clock that a careful listener might 
have heard subdued sounds from the barn, 
and a rumbling murmur of wheels unaccom¬ 
panied by the tread of horses’ feet. 

Betsy went to bed in a whirl of emotion. 
“I’ve done two very wicked things today,” 
she thought, “I’ve opened the letter—and 
that’s a real crime—and I’ve sold mother’s 
buggy. I guess I’m as bad as plenty of 
people who are sitting in prison right now.” 




The Turn of the Long Lane 207 


It was strange that she was not more 
depressed. She accounted for it to herself 
with some complacency. “It’s because my 
secret heart means to do right,” she said as 
she got into bed. “It’s the secret heart 
that counts every time.” 

She was in the same mood the next morn¬ 
ing when she brought Mr. Simpson’s letter 
from the mail, and, investigating it in the 
privacy of the barn, found two crisp ten 
dollar notes inside of it. The empty place 
left by the buggy was quite filled by the 
sight of those yellow-backed bills. Then 
the question arose—should she tell her mother 
now, or wait till the need was greater? 

It was hard to decide. She thought it 
better to let chance decide for her. It was 
strange how many secrets were accumulating 
about this ardent disciple of truth. “I’ll 
see how she gets along, and if she ever looks 
worried, I’ll bring out the notes. When she 
sees all this money, she’ll be bound to feel 
better,” she said finally. 

She put the money away in the depths 
of her treasure chest, feeling uneasy and yet 
triumphant. The future was more assured 




208 


Betsy Hale 


now, even though she had bartered some 
peace of mind to secure it. 

Mrs. Hale was quite herself that day. She 
sat about or walked in the sunny garden, 
entirely content it seemed with her enforced 
idleness. 

“Oh, it’s so good to feel the sun,” she told 
the doctor when he made his visit. “It seems 
as though I could never get enough of it. 
I shall be sorry when my vacation is over.” 

Betsy cast an imploring look at him, as she 
brought the glass of water for the ther¬ 
mometer. He understood and, speaking 
very firmly and quietly, he told Mrs. Hale 
the exact state of the case. “Not a stroke 
of work till I say so,” he ended. “Sun and 
air and a bit of dabbling in the garden—that 
is all that is before you for some time. Mind 
you stick to it, too. I’ll not be responsible 
if you disobey orders.” 

She kept up very well while he was there, 
but afterward she turned to Betsy, flinging out 
her hands in impotent rebellion. “But I 
must write,” she protested. “I can’t rest 
forever. I’ll simply have to begin—” she 
broke off helplessly. “We have only about 



The Turn of the Long Lane 209 


i 

t 

enough to last the month out,” she said sud¬ 
denly. “One can’t live without money.” 

It was Betsy’s great opportunity. She 
dropped on her knees beside her mother and 
put two steady arms about her. She felt 
quite calm now that the moment had come. 

“Don’t you worry, Mother dear,” she said. 
“We’ll get along. Something will happen to 
help us. And—and—I sold the buggy this 
morning for twenty whole dollars. I have 
them all ready to give you now.” 

And before her mother could speak she 
was on her feet and had sped to her own room. 
She was back again in a flash with the two 
yellow bills, crying, “Here they are. Aren’t 
they perfectly beautiful? Mr. Simpson says 
we mustn’t tell Emma Clara, though, until 
she’s seen it. He wanted to surprise her.” 

Mrs. Hale behaved very unexpectedly. 

She took the two notes which Betsy thrust 
on her, and she laid them down under a book 
on the table without a word. She asked no 
questions as to the transaction, but drew 
Betsy close to her and held her so fast that 
Betsy could hear the fluttering of her heart. 
“My own dear brave Betsy,” she whispered. 

14 



210 


Betsy Hale 


“Oh, how like your dear father! He always 
met the emergency, too. Oh, my dear, dear 
child.” 

“But,” cried Betsy, dismayed at this indif¬ 
ference to the money, “aren’t you glad to 
have the beautiful notes? Don’t you just 
love them? I thought you’d feel so 
pleased-” 

“I’m so pleased that I almost forgot them,” 
was the puzzling reply, and there was a 
tremulous happiness in her tone which was 
entirely satisfying. “I shan’t worry about 
anything now,” she told Betsy with a gay 
little laugh. “I know it’s all coming out 
right in the end.” 

The practical side of Betsy was not quite 
satisfied with this. “Twenty dollars won’t 
last so very, very long, will it?” she asked 
soberly. 

Her mother laughed again. “With what 
we have it will answer till I’m well or till—” 
she broke off though it was plain she was 
thinking of the book again. “I surely will be 
quite myself again in a fortnight or so,” she 
ended brightly. “We’ll put away this treas¬ 
ure safely enough till it’s needed. And now 





The Turn of the Long Lane 211 


tell me about your great transaction. I 
didn’t remember we had a buggy till you 
spoke of it.” 

It was very pleasant to recount the meager 
details and Mrs. Hale listened with equal 
pleasure. She did not even hint that her 
daughter might have done better to have 
asked permission. The confession went so 
well that Betsy unburdened herself of the 
other misdemeanor, and here, too, she found 
much mercy. 

“Poor thing, you have had a hard time of 
it,” said her mother tenderly. 

Betsy almost wished she had been scolded. 
To her strict sense of judgment she was 
getting off too easily. The old Puritan blood 
within her veins demanded penance and 
expiation for the matter of the letter, at 
least. 

“I shan’t spend a single cent on myself at 
the Fair,” she thought as she went up-stairs. 
“I won’t buy any ice cream or candy or 
anything. I’ve just got to make up somehow 
for being so wicked.” 

She thought of the forty-five cents in the 
beaded purse in her top drawer up-stairs. 



212 


Betsy Hale 


It had been saved with much pains, and it 
looked very large to her even now, after 
handling the huge sum realized from the 
buggy. 

“I won’t spend a single cent of it,” she 
repeated. “Til take it with me so as not to 
feel too poor, but I won’t even look at it.” 

As she remembered Helen Bond’s wish to 
meet her at the Fair, some dim foreboding of 
the form her penance might take aroused her 
fears. She shook it off with spirit. “Mrs. 
Bond wouldn’t want to hire me like that 
poor Jenny Parsons,” she said with a flare of 
pride. “I shouldn’t do it, anyway.” 

Nevertheless she was rather uneasy about 
it. 

i 

Selma Worthington ran in after lunch to 
tell her that as her cousin would go to the 
Fair with her, she shouldn’t be able to stop 
for Betsy as she had promised so long ago. 
As she was going she turned back to say that 
Philip Meade’s father had died that morning. 

“You know Philip, don’t you?” she asked. 
“He brings your milk, doesn’t he?” 

Betsy nodded but said nothing. She felt 
too sorry for Philip to be able to talk. After 



The Turn of the Long Lane 213 


Selma had gone she went rather soberly 
up-stairs to dress. She put on her fresh white 
frock, and tied the blue ribbon at her collar 
and belt. 

She said good-bye to her mother, who w T as 
so wonderfully improved by her two days’ 
rest that Betsy did not fear to leave her, and 
tucking the beaded purse deep in her pocket, 
she started for the Fair. 



CHAPTER XIII 


What the Flower Basket Held for 

Betsy 

tow sweet!” cried Betsy under 

B 1 her breath. “It’s a real flower bas- 
ket for sure!” 

She had come up to the big assembly room 
of the hall in search of Mrs. Bean, since 
Selma was nowhere to be found among the 
excited hurrying crowds of workers and aids 
below stairs, all rushing to get into their 
fancy aprons, caps and other ornaments 
before the doors should open to the public. 

In the very center of the room stood the 
big Flower Basket, large enough to hold 
many potted plants and smaller baskets, 
empty as yet, and in the middle of them all 
a flower-like little lady whom Betsy recognized 
with surprise as Mrs. Bean herself. She was 
in the midst of the green things, looking as 
though she had grown there, and very pink 
and pretty in a rose-leaf cap and green airy 

( 214 ) 


What the Flower Basket Held 215 


muslins. Betsy stared for an admiring mo¬ 
ment and then she hurried to her. 

“How lovely it is, Mrs. Bean,” she said. 
“It’s the prettiest thing here. But how did 
you ever get into it?” 

Mrs. Bean laughed softly, and pointing to 
the muslin sides of the basket, she replied, 
“I just crept under, my dear. Isn’t it a 
clever idea? Mr. Simpson and his daughter 
helped me with it, or I never should have 
been able to get it arranged. It’s my old 
kitchen table with muslin sides, painted to 
look like basketry, and a hole sawed in the 
middle for me to stand comfortably. The 
handle is a lattice arch that’s to go in my 
garden when we’re through with it here. 
We’ve been tremendously secret about it, and 
not a soul has seen it until now.” 

Betsy walked about the booth, admiring it 
from every side. “It’s just perfect,” she 
declared. “Everybody will be wild over it.” 

“I hope so, my dear,” returned Mrs. Bean 
doubtfully. “I’m relying on the Highville 
people, though, for my sales. The villagers 
aren’t given to spending money on flowers, 
I believe. Come, let me put on your regalia. 



216 


Betsy Hale 


Your’s is blue, you see, and Selma’s is pink— 
just to match your frocks and ribbons.” 

She held out a pretty little wreath and 
girdle of flowers as she spoke. “ I made them 
out of old ones that I’d saved from my hats,” 
she explained. “Before I went into mourn¬ 
ing I loved pretty colors, but I’ve never worn 
them much since.” 

Betsy w T as too much delighted with the 
effect of the blue wreath to be able to speak, 
but after Mrs. Bean, reaching over, had 
fitted it on her smooth brown head and ad¬ 
justed the girdle about her blue ribbon belt, 
she said, very heartily, “But you look per¬ 
fectly lovely in pink, Mrs. Bean. I didn’t 
know you at all wdien I came in.” 

Mrs. Bean laughed again at this. “I 
might call that a left-handed compliment, if 
I didn’t feel so flattered by it,” she replied, 
patting the blue flowers into place. “ Now, go 
and see how you like yourself. There’s a 
mirror at the fancy booth over there.” 

Betsy obeyed and came back with a glowing 
face. “They look sweet ,” she told Mrs. Bean. 
“I didn’t know I could look like that.” 

The big hall clock was striking as she spoke 



What the Flower'Basket Held 217 


and Mrs. Bean looked anxiously about. “I 
do hope Mr. Worthington gets the flowers 
safely,” she murmured, and at Betsy’s look 
of inquiry: “He and Selma very kindly offered 
to get the cut flowers. Miller’s machine 
broke down somewhere on the road and they 
telephoned over that they couldn’t get here 
until five o’clock. So Mr. Worthington has 
gone off to hunt them up.” 

Betsy was disappointed that Selma should 
not be there for the very beginning, but the 
managers and their aids were now pouring 
into the hall and taking their places before 
the doors down-stairs should be thrown open. 
She took her station beside the big flower 
basket, and although her tray, which should 
be filled with small bouquets, was empty and 
useless, she tried to aid Mrs. Bean all she 
could, eager to be answering questions and 
recommending the plants which were all they 
as yet had for sale. 

The crowd drifted in, laughing and chatter¬ 
ing, a goodly number strangers from the 
neighboring villages. Betsy wondered if 
Selma’s cousin were among them. 

She was about to ask Mrs. Bean, whom she 



218 


Betsy Hale 


felt must know, when the first customer 
claimed that lady’s attention, and Betsy 
postponed her question. At this very mo¬ 
ment she saw a plainly dressed girl in a flat 
hat standing on the threshold, looking about 
with a rather indifferent air. Behind her 
was a woman in still plainer clothes, who 
loitered in the doorway, as Betsy thought, 
waiting for the girl to move and allow her to 
pass. 

“It must be Selma’s cousin,” she thought, 
and, acting on a sudden impulse, she hurried 
over to her and spoke with a welcoming 
smile. 

“Won’t you come over to the Flower 
Basket?” she asked. “Selma will be here 
soon, I think. We haven’t the cut flowers for 
the bouquets, you know, but they’ll be here 
presently,” she added, as the girl silently left 
her post at the doorway and turned toward 
her. “But the booth looks very pretty, 
doesn’t it? It’s quite the prettiest here, I 
think.” 

She talked the more since Selma’s cousin 
was so silent. She was a pale, thin girl with 
dark eyes and very straight dark hair. She 



What the Flower Basket Held 219 


looked searchingly at Betsy, but did not speak 
till they reached the booth, where Mrs. Bean 
was busy with her customer. 

“You are Betsy Hale,” she announced 
quietly. “I didn’t know you with those 
flowers on you. I thought you were plainer 
than that.” 

Betsy laughed and blushed. 44 It’s my uni¬ 
form,” she answered, touching the wreath 
and girdle. 44 Mrs. Bean made them for me.” 

The girl looked at her coolly. 44 1 didn’t 
mean that I expectejd you to be ugly,” she 
said very candidly. 44 1 knew you were good 
looking. I meant your clothes. I thought 
you wore queer clothes—plain, moppity sort 
of frocks and wide shoes.” 

Betsy opened her eyes at such rudeness. 
She should not like the cousin at all, she was . 
sure. She wished Selma were here to take 
her off her hands. 

44 Mother believes in being quite uncon¬ 
scious of one’s clothes,” she told the other, 
rather loftily. She would have liked to be 
much more cutting. 

“Unconscious,” exclaimed the pale girl 
with scorn. “I don’t see how you’d ever 



220 


Betsy Hale 


4 

think of anything else when you had that 
brown rig on. I peeped at your back when 
you were going out, and it certainly was the 
limit! You ought to wear flowers and fluffy 
things like you have today.” 

Betsy was too much surprised by this advice 
to answer at once. The plain woman who had 
followed them touched the girl on the arm and 
drew her off toward the fancy table. Betsy, 
looking after her with indignant eyes, saw 
that though the girl was dressed with great 
simplicity, it was with a different sort of 
plainness from poor Betsy’s Truth-and-Sim- 
plicity dress. Justice insisted on that much. 

Mrs. Bean leaned over to her, smiling 
down into her perturbed face. 

“ Helen Bond is looking very pale, poor 
thing,” she said, compassionately. “How 
sad it is that she is so delicate.” 

Betsy's wave of indignation died at once. 
Perhaps Mrs. Bean, seeing something of the 
little incident, had meant it should. She 
turned eagerly. “Was that Helen Bond?” 
she asked in surprise, and then she laughed 
out merrily. “I thought it was Selma’s 
cousin, and I wondered how she could be so 
criss-cross, but of course, if it’s Helen-” 




What the Flower Basket Held 221 


She broke off as another customer came 
up. She was thinking that since it was Helen 
Bond, her forebodings had proved useless. 
“For she won’t like me at all now,” she told 
herself hopefully. “That settles that. And 
I’m glad of it.” She added a moment later, 
“though I didn’t want to be rude.” 

Then Selma came back with her father and 
the flowers and the visiting cousin, all in a 
bustle of pleasant excitement, and Betsy 
forgot Helen Bond in the fun of helping. She 
and Selma and Adeline made the little 
bouquets under Mrs. Bean’s directions, and 
the two trays w r ere soon filled. The rest of 
the cut flow r ers were put in the vases among 
the small baskets, and the booth became a 
veritable bower. 

Adeline chose to make the rounds among 
the crowds with Betsy and her tray, and 
being a very lively, active girl, she helped 
much with the sales. The tray was emptied 
in half the time Betsy would have taken to 
it, and they were on their second trip when 
they met Helen Bond. 

She was buying some candy and the plain 
woman in black was still near her. When 



222 


Betsy Hale 


she saw the two girls Helen turned to thrust 
her purchases into the arms of her attendant. 
“Go sit down somewhere, Martha,” she said, 
in a kinder tone than she used when she 
turned again to the girls, waving them nearer 
with an imperious motion of the hand. She 
spoke to Adeline. 

“Why don’t you go help that W r orthington 
girl sell her bouquets?” she asked sharply. 
“She’s only half sold out, and this is your 
second trip.” It was plain that she had 
been keeping an eye on them. 

Adeline hesitated and, as Betsy was about 
to protest, Helen spoke again. “I want 
to talk to Betsy Hale,” she said firmly. 
“You’ll have a better time with Selma. 
I’m going to invite you three to supper with 
me, after you’re through. Tell her, will 

•) 99 

your 

Adeline had heard many tales of the spoiled 
Helen’s whims, and, being a practical girl, she 
did not stop to question this unexpected 
invitation to sup with the young lady from 
the Shrubberies. Betsy was left with Helen 
without another word. 

“And now let’s get rid of your stuff,” she 



What the Flower Basket Held 223 


said unceremoniously. “I’d buy it myself, 
only it’ll be more fun to make the people 
take them. Here, give me the tray. How 
much are they?” 

Betsy was astonished. Her annoyance at 
Adeline’s summary dismissal faded before the 
spirit in Helen’s dark eyes. 

“Five cents? That’s too cheap,” declared 
Helen. “I’ll make them pay ten, see if I 
don’t.” 

And she did. Whether because it was she 
made a very positive salesman or because 
the villagers were impressed by the sight of 
Mrs. Bond’s daughter selling posies—what¬ 
ever the reason was, she sold her wares with 
remarkable swiftness. Then she took the 
tray back to Mrs. Bean and handed it to 
her, saying, as she added a dollar note to the 
pile of change that Betsy was delivering: 

“Please don’t expect Betsy Hale back 
for a while, Mrs. Flower Basket. She’s 
going to stay with me until Mother comes.” 

It was to be as Betsy had feared. Helen 
took possession of her for the next hour. 
It was hard for Betsy to see Selma and Adeline 
going about together having a very good time 




224 


Betsy Hale 


with their tray, while she had to keep up with 
Helen Bond’s rapid wandering from booth 
to table and from table to booth in search of 
something worth caring for. At first she was 
rather indignant at the selfishness she saw 
displayed so freely, and then a sort of pity 
for the restless, unsatisfied girl beside her 
crept gradually into her heart. 

“She doesn’t get much good from all 
her money,” she thought, seeing how little 
pleasure Helen took in her purchases. “I’d 
be perfectly wild over that silk bag she’s 
turning up her nose at. I guess she isn’t 
very happy, for all she has.” 

Helen confirmed her by drawing her to a 
couple of chairs nearby and motioning to her 
to sit there with her. “It’s awfully slow, 
isn’t it?” she said, looking about with dis¬ 
satisfaction. “I never seem to find any fun 
in these things somehow.” Her dark eyes 
traveled about the room, stopping here and 
there on some particular person or object. 
“That Worthington girl is sort of nice look¬ 
ing, but she’s a perfect frump with that pink 
wreath about her fat pink face-” 

Betsy flashed into defense on the instant. 




What the Flower Basket Held 225 


“I think she looks perfectly sweet/ 5 she 
retorted hotly, “and she’s as sweet as she 
looks. It’s a pity you weren’t more like her. 
You’re rude and selfish and you laugh at 
people who are twice as good as you are. 
I shan’t have supper with you, thank you, 
and I’ll say good-bye, if you please,” and she 
was on her feet with her eyes snapping and 
her cheeks red with wrath. “I don’t care for 
people who make fun of everybody,” she 
added as a parting shot. 

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” said Helen, 
calmly, though her face, too, flushed with 
sudden feeling. “I won’t say anything more. 
I didn’t mean to be horrid. Stay and be 
nice, won’t you? I’m awfully tired today, I 
guess that’s what made me cross. I’d like 
Selma well enough, no doubt, if I knew her, 
and how can I know her unless we have a 
chance to be together?” 

Betsy looked at her. She was ill looking, 
there was no doubt about it. The dark 
circles under her eyes showed plainly as she 
raised her face to Betsy. “Well, if you prom¬ 
ise—” began Betsy. 

That was the end of it. Helen had her way. 


15 



226 


Betsy Hale 


And it was not such a bad way after all, 
as Betsy had to acknowledge when the four of 
them were seated at a small table in a corner 
with the assiduous aids plying them with 
chicken and biscuit, jelly and hot cakes, cocoa 
and deviled eggs, and to top off, ice cream and 
angel cake of wonderful lightness and sweet¬ 
ness. Adeline was the gayest of the party, 
though Selma proved Betsy’s praise of her 
good temper by her slow, gentle kindness to 
the whimsical hostess, who seemed wholly 
bent on making her guests enjoy themselves, 
while Betsy, seeing how matters went, was well 
enough content. 

After that Helen went home and she and 
Selma took charge of the Flower Basket while 
Mrs. Bean, struggling under the muslin sides 
of her basket, went for supper, and then in 
a short time the Flower Basket was sold out 
and her duties were over. 

What a good time she had! Slow, gentle 
Selma and the lively Adeline were in as 
high spirits as she, and the three threaded 
their happy way among the gay crowed, grow¬ 
ing more friendly all the time, laughing, 
chattering and making their purchases with 
much merriment. 



What the Flower Basket Held 227 


At least, Selma and Adeline did. Betsy’s 
purse stayed deep down in her pocket, though 
she longed for more than one delectable article. 
She would not take it out, though she felt 
very mean, indeed. She was glad that her 
penance was proving hard, since she hoped 
all the more to escape from her dim fore¬ 
bodings in that way. 

One cannot run from one’s fate, however, 
as she found at the end of the happy evening. 
She was helping Mrs. Bean find her wraps 
when Mrs. Bond halted her. She and her 
guests had come late but stayed long and 
bought largely. She was beaming with kindly 
patronage. 

“I have something particular to say to 
you, Miss Betsy Hale,” she said, “I must 
thank you for having given my Helen a very 
delightful time. She has taken a great fancy 
to you, you see, and I am very grateful to 
you for helping her to enjoy the Fair.” 

Betsy was silent. This was not very alarm¬ 
ing. Still, she was not sure of what that 
charming manner of Mrs. Bond’s might mean. 

“Helen is lonely in her studies, I am 
afraid,” Mrs. Bond went on, “and I have 



228 


Betsy Hale 


been thinking it might be a desirable thing 
for you to share them with her. She has 
the best masters, and you could have music 
or—but I should arrange that with your 
mother. Should you like to study at the 
Shrubberies?” 

Betsy hesitated. It sounded very well, 
but she felt that it was a beginning of other 
things. "It’s very kind,” she said, with a 
pretty gratitude in her face. “I think I 
should have to speak to Mother first, though.” 

Mrs. Bond’s face clouded a little. “Of 
course, my dear,” she said kindly. “I 
merely thought I’d find out whether it would 
be agreeable to you. I should not say any¬ 
thing to your mother if you declined. Helen 
is rather delicate, and I suppose you might 
find her too quiet a companion. She does 
not go about like other girls, you know. She 
could not often go to see you, so I thought 
you might come to her.” 

It was so delicately put that Betsy felt she 
had been too abrupt. A picture of her mother 
crumpled on the grass by the summer house 
flashed before her, and the sound of her 
lament was in Betsy’s ears. 



What the Flower Basket Held 229 


She took the leap without a backward 
look. 

“Mrs. Bond/’ she said in a queer, strained 
voice, looking directly into the large brown 
eyes bent on her. “I will come as often as 
I can, if—if you will pay me for it—like 
those others—and if you will not speak to 
Mother about it for a while.” 

Her cheeks burned and her eyes were hot 
with the shame of making such an offer, but 
she stood her ground. She did not let her 
gaze waver, and Mrs. Bond, looking back into 
her clear eyes, smiled approval, though she 
was plainly puzzled. 

“I agree to your terms, my dear,” she 
replied quickly. “Only I shall make some 
changes in the regular program of Helen’s 
routine. You shall share her studies in the 
mornings, and when the spirit moves you to 
add an afternoon of companionship, it will be 
placed to your score. Each time you are at 
the Shrubberies, either for study or for play, 
will count as the whole sum I shall owe you.” 
She mentioned the amount she intended for 
each visit and Betsy felt suddenly very rich. 

“But it doesn’t seem fair to take the 



230 


Betsy Hale 


lessons and the money, too,” she protested 
uneasily. “You see, it’s quite necessary to 
my mind that I should have the money.” 

Mrs. Bond actually laughed. “We’ll say 
no more about it, Miss Betsy,” she told her. 
“I begin to suspect you are a miser or else 
you are speculating. But the money shall 
be yours, as I said. Shake hands and it’s a 
bargain. See, I give you a penny to bind the 
matter,” and she drew a bright penny from 
her purse and handed it to Betsy. 

That was all there was to it. The affair 
had taken about three minutes and Betsy, 
with Mrs. Bean’s wrap on her arm, was at 
Mrs. Bean’s side before that small lady had 
missed her. 

Selma and Adeline walked home with her, 
while Emma Clara and Mr. Simpson came as 
far as the beechwood copse to see that all 
was well. 

The moon was very bright and the air was 
sparkling. Adeline skipped along beside 
Betsy, chattering like a gay magpie, while 
Selma’s low laugh floated out constantly. 

Betsy was feeling triumphant now. She 
had met and overcome her dread. She told 




i 6 


A PENNY TO BIND THE MATTER 











What the Flower Basket Held 231 


her mother of all except her compact with 
Mrs. Bond. She laughed and chattered in a 
way that surprised her mother. 

“I am glad you were able to go, Betsy 
girl,” said her mother tenderly as she bade 
her good night. “It’s been a very happy 
evening to you, hasn’t it?” 

Betsy nodded. After she went up-stairs 
and undressed she said her prayers very slowly 
indeed, and then, with her lip caught between 
her teeth she went over to the window-ledge 
in the quiet moonlight and she stuck pins 
very hard into the window-sill. It was the 
only protest she made against her fate. 

She felt better after that. 

“The Fair was lots of fun, though, and the 
Garden Party will be nice, I guess. Anyway, 
Mother’s birthday will be glorious. I won¬ 
der what I’m to wear to the Garden Party?” 
she thought drowsily, but before she could 
even try to think she fell asleep. 



CHAPTER XIV 


Intervals and Interludes 
HE next few days sped with winged 



feet. 


Looking back over them, Betsy 


wondered how so much could be packed into 
so short a space, particularly in the quiet days 
at the Wee Corner; for no great change came 
into the life there. It was more in Betsy’s 
own experiences that the events crowded. 

In the first place, the lessons at the Shrub¬ 
beries began at once. That was as it should 
be from Betsy’s point of view. The sooner 
she began to earn that money, the longer 
time her mother should have to take her 
rest. She did not mean to tell her of the 
arrangement between herself and Mrs. Bond 
until after the Garden Party. In the mean¬ 
while, it was a secret between the mistress of 
the Shrubberies and herself, not even Helen 
knowing of the bargain. 

Betsy came back from her first morning 


( 232 ) 


Intervals and Interludes 


233 


there with a sense of having escaped from 
bondage. She fluttered out into the meadows 
by the brook beyond the hill, breathing the 
sweet, free air luxuriantly. “Phew, I’m glad, 
glad, glad I don’t live in a velvety place like 
that,” she said to a jack-in-the-pulpit beneath 
the first tree she came to. “The Shrubberies 
looks very beautiful, but when you’re inside 
it feels as though you were nailed in—just 
like a coffin. All velvet and satin, but 
mighty tight” 

Nevertheless she kept her bargain to the 
letter and beyond it, for she tried to make 
Helen Bond as happy as she could. And 
when she failed to amuse her with stories of 
her own quiet life she turned to the descrip¬ 
tion of others. She told her of Jimmy 
Delaney and his wise mother; of Philip 
Meade, of his battle with the delinquent James 
and his friendship with the late Mr. Gun of 
Caithness and the Wee Corner. Indeed, she 
talked so much of Philip that Helen grew 
deeply interested. 

“Why don’t you bring Philip over here 
with you?” she asked suddenly one morning 
while they were at their French together in 



234 


Betsy Hale 


the sun parlor. “I was telling Mother about 
him yesterday, and she thinks he might belong 
to some people my father used to know. The 
firm went to smash and no one ever heard of 
them again, she says, but they were fine 
people.” 

Betsy remembered Philip’s mention of the 
polo pony, but she was not going to have her 
friends exhibited for Helen’s fancy. “I 
don’t believe he’ll come,” she answered. 
“I’ll ask him, of course.” 

She had been quite right. Philip, who had 
returned the day after the Fair, was very 
decided. “I don’t play with girls,” he told 
Betsy decidedly. “Tell your Helen to stick 
to her own sort.” 

“But you’ve let me go for blue-bottles and 
blood-root twice in this one week,” Betsy 
reminded him. 

To which he merely answered, “You’re 
different,” and went off whistling a very com¬ 
plicated tune. And that was an end of it. 
No amount of arguing could change his reso¬ 
lution. Sally thought that Helen seemed to 
admire him the more for it, but that was all 
that came of her effort. 



Intervals and Interludes 


235 


A secret is hard to keep, and if they had 
not had the Garden Party to divert them, 
Betsy might have had to tell her secret sooner. 
The matter of garments was absorbing enough 
under most circumstances, but now, with the 
small sum that remained to them, which pro¬ 
hibited any outlay for new frocks, the subject 
grew in importance. 

At last it was decided that Betsy should 
wear her white dress, with the addition of a 
fine lace collar from the past glories of the 
trunk, and with some soft yellow ribbons 
that had been found therein. With new 
gloves and the white silk stockings which 
had been her birthday present from Mrs. 
Warren, an old friend of her mother’s mother, 
it was thought she should do very well. Mrs. 
Hale was not so confident as Betsy. She 
had doubts as to the fitness of the fine lace 
collar on the plain dress. 

“It will look perfectly sweet,” Betsy de¬ 
clared emphatically. “And I’ll feel dread¬ 
fully dressed-up in silk stockings. Wasn’t 
it fortunate that I had them? They’ll just 
make my whole dress look lovely.” 

Mrs. Hale said nothing. It was plain 



236 


Betsy Hale 


she was dissatisfied. But what could she 
do? 

Betsy was very brave about the Garden 
Party, for in her heart she longed for a new 
dress quite as much as any girl could. Selma 
was to have a new white one, and Emma Clara 
had spoken of a pale green crepe—all the 
village was invited to the afternoon party, 
while only the selected were to remain for 
the supper and dance; and it was with tight 
lips and an unusual number of pins in her 
window-sill that Betsy kept herself from 
moping. 

She had her reward, however, after Mrs. 
Warren’s unexpected visit. 

Mrs. Warren had descended upon them 
with only an hour’s warning. She was on 
her way north and having heard of their 
removal to the remote village among the 
hills, she had taken the trouble to hunt 
them up. “For old time’s sake, my dear,” 
she told Mrs. Hale when she descended 
rather warm and breathless from the stage, 
just sixty minutes after her telegram had 
reached them. 

She had stayed but one night, leaving on 




Intervals and Interludes 


237 


the noon train the next day, and her visit had 
been a happy interlude. Mrs.. Hale was 
looking quite well and Betsy was radiant. 
Mrs. Warren’s praise of the Wee Corner had 
quite gone to her head. They made no 
excuses for the lack of servants and Mrs. 
Warren thought it only a temporary matter. 
Altogether they had a pleasant time. 

“I’m glad to see you looking so sweet and 
well, my dear Jeannette,” she said as she was 
leaving. “You are the picture of your 
mother at your age. This girl of yours is a 
regular Hale, though. She’s her father over 
again. Why don’t you dress her in those 
nice limp gowns that they are wearing now? 
I’m sure they’d fit her perfectly.” 

As she pinned on her hat she nodded out 
toward the row’ of sentinel pines that guarded 
the angle of the garden. “I’m going to send 
you a sun-dial for that corner,” she told 
them. “Don’t tell me that you will ever 
leave this place. It was just made for you 
two unw r orldly beings. I’ll stop in to see you 
in the fall, and if that dial isn’t in the right 
spot. I’ll make a fuss, I can tell you.” 

After she had gone. Betsy and her mother 



238 


Betsy Hale 


looked at each other. A sun-dial for the 
garden, when they were so uncertain of their 
staying here! 

“It’s very kind of her,” said Mrs. Hale 
seriously. “She was always very generous.” 

Betsy was glad later on that she had not 
said just what she felt at that moment. For 
two days later the stage brought a huge 
package to them. 

They looked at it doubtfully. It was a 
very queer shape for a sun-dial. 

“Perhaps it’s a very new-fashioned one,” 
suggested Betsy hopefully. 

“It’s very small, anyway,” said Mrs. 
Hale, “and that’s a blessing. Here, Betsy, 
cut the cords while I stand it up. Mercy, 
how light it is; I can almost lift it myself.” 

Of course it turned out to be no sun-dial. 
That was to come later on, the note said. 
The note was pinned to the hem of a lovely 
limp yellow frock of exactly Betsy’s size— 
that was why Mrs. Warren had playfully 
measured Betsy’s height against her own 
solid arm—and in the box under the dress,were 
shoes, low ones, beautiful slender low shoes 
with buckles on them; and yellow silk stock- 




Intervals and Interludes 


239 


ings and a pair of the dearest gloves of the 
faintest straw color. 

“Oh, oh, oh!” breathed the enchanted 
Betsy as these were handed out. “To think 
they’re for me! Oh, it’s too much all at 
once. Mother. Some of them ought to be 
yours.” 

Mrs. Hale laughed and sparkled joy¬ 
fully. “ Grown-up ladies can’t take such 
presents, even from their mother’s old 
friends,” she told Betsy. “It’s all right for 
little girls, even when they’re on the brink 
of being big girls. See, here’s a big square 
box. What in the world-” 

It took their breath—that adorable hat. 
It was not because of its wealth of trimming 
or variety of color. It was a plain pale yellow 
straw and it had only a soft twist of silk about 
its crown with a couple of pale yellow daisies 
in its folds. But what exquisite texture the 
straw had, and how perfectly the silk was 
placed! Betsy actually wept at the sight 
of it. 

Later on, after the package of books had 
been discovered and the big box of bon-bons 
unearthed, they found a lovely fluffy lacy 




240 


Betsy Hale 


wrap that was absolutely the very thing to 
go with the lace dress and wide hat which 
Mrs. Hale was to wear to the Bond’s garden 
fete. 

Betsy fairly trembled lest her mother should 
refuse the gift. Grown-up ladies, it seemed, 
might accept scarfs from their old friends and 
wear them without prejudice. Betsy was 
very thankful for that much. 

“And now, we’re just perfect,” she de¬ 
clared, as the gifts lay spread out on their 
bed in Mrs. Hale’s room, and their own 
belongings were arranged after the fashion 
they should be worn on the great day. 

A sudden fear seized Betsy. “Would the 
League think they were too—too pretty?” 
she asked with a quaver. 

Mrs. Hale shook her head. “The League 
doesn’t want us to be ugly,” she explained. 
“It really wants us to be as beautiful outside 
as we are inside. Truth, you know, is always 
beautiful. Besides, these things of yours are 
very simple.” 

Emma Clara came in while they were still 
admiring. She was also enraptured with 
Betsy’s outfit, as she had very good taste and 



Intervals and Interludes 


241 


poor Betsy’s dun-colored, shapeless garments 
had been a sore trial to her. She motioned 
Betsy to walk home with her and when they 
were outside the gate and out of Mrs. Hale’s 
hearing she said abruptly, “I’ve got a dollar 
and a half of yours. What are you going 
to do with it?” 

Betsy was bewildered. Emma Clara ex¬ 
plained. “You’ve paid for the table and 
seats two weeks ago. You forget how many 
afternoons we’ve been reading. I’ve had six 
lessons in these last two weeks. That’s 
a dollar and a half. I’ve been looking at 
some stuff at Higbee’s and you can get enough 
pretty lawn for an every-day dress. I’ll help 
you make it, as sort of a birthday surprise, 
you can have it for your mother’s little party 
in the summer house. I was afraid to men¬ 
tion it until I saw those pretty things. I 
didn’t know whether you’d be allowed to 
wear any nice colors.” 

Betsy slipped her hand into Emma Clara’s 
arm and pressed it hard. “Oh, how sweet 
you are,” was all she said, but it was quite 
enough for Emma Clara, who was a young 
lady of prompt action. 


16 



242 


Betsy Hale 


“I’ve got the money in my pocket, and 
we’ll go get the stuff right off,” she said 
briskly. “You’ve time enough for that, 
I hope?” 

Betsy had time, and, rejoicing in the won¬ 
derful fortune that brought her so many 
treasures all at once, she saw the pretty pink 
lawn measured off and wrapped. She fairly 
gloated over the color. “I never thought I’d 
have a pink dress this year,” she said ardently 
as the package was handed her by Emma 
Clara. “It’s just like a fairy story.” 

Emma Clara laughed. “ Being-up-and-at-it 
is the fairy that’s done this trick,” she replied. 
“You’ve only got yourself to thank for 
this.” 

Betsy was about to deny this emphatically 
when the sight of Philip Meade in the road 
just beyond the cross-roads beside the Bond 
limousine turned her thoughts in another 
direction. She saw Mrs. Bond smiling and 
talking with her kindest manner. She said 
nothing to Emma Clara, who had not noticed 
the little group, but she thought a good deal 
about it afterward, and it was no surprise to 
her to hear Helen say the first thing on Betsy’s 
arrival the next morning: 



Intervals and Interludes 


243 


“ Mother saw your Philip Meade yester¬ 
day, and he’s one of the Meades she used to 
know. He’s coming for science and history 
with us this Saturday. Mother liked him 
awfully much.” 

Betsy was glad of the prospect of Philip’s 
companionship for even this short period, for, 
to tell the truth, she had a rather hard time 
to keep up with Helen in these studies. Betsy 
had been counted the best student in the 
public school class, but Helen, whose whole 
energies seemed to have centered on her 
studies, was ahead of her in most branches. 

“I’m glad your mother asked him herself,” 
she replied with a proud little lift of her head. 
“Philip isn’t like most boys. He’s so strong 
minded. He’d never have come on our 
asking—not if we invited him till doomsday.” 

When the next Saturday morning came 
Philip acquitted himself so well that Mr. 
Hacksall, the master, praised him openly, 
and Betsy glowed with the pride of having 
been the means of bringing this promising 
pupil to the notice of the Shrubberies. She 
forgot her own hopes in his success, and she 
and Helen built up some beautiful air castles 



244 


Betsy Hale 


on their own account. Helen declared that 
Philip should share their studies, and when 
Betsy pointed out to her that if Philip left 
the public school it would only retard him, 
as he must go back there again after the 
Bonds had left. 

Once again Helen said nothing and the 
matter dropped. 

Betsy had many other things to demand 
her attention just then, and it was little 
wonder that she asked no more questions. 

First of all, the checks for the Shrubberies’ 
weekly coffee had mounted up so amazingly, 
owing to many guests and additional attend¬ 
ants preparing for the Garden Party, that 
Betsy found herself in possession of the 
required amount of checks for her coveted 
premium. She had to call at Mrs. Barker’s 
room and turn over the future orders to that 
capable lady. And then she had to notify the 
coffee man. She turned in her checks and 
then she waited with agonizing expectancy, 
dreading lest anything should delay the 
treasured gift. The coffee man had said it 
would take about a week to send them. 

And then the pink dress required much 



Intervals and Interludes 


245 


time and care. Emma Clara really did it 
almost entirely herself, but Betsy hemmed 
the skirt and sleeves, and gladly endured 
many fittings. She read to Emma Clara, too, 
while she sewed, “to even up,” as she told 
her. 

Altogether she was very busy indeed and 
very happy, too. 

Her mother was growing rosier and stronger 
every day. It seemed that it might be but a 
short time before the doctor might withdraw 
his prohibition of the typewriter. They had 
given up speaking of the book. It was almost 
a month since it had been sent, and the pub¬ 
lishing firm to which it had gone was noted 
for its prompt decisions. Betsy came from 
the mail that day with empty hands. 

“Let’s go get our clothes out,” she sug¬ 
gested. “It’ll be no harm to have every¬ 
thing ready. You’ll have to take your nap 
after lunch, and we don’t want to hurry into 
those blessed clothes. Isn’t it nice of Mrs. 
Bond to send a machine for us? You won’t 
get a bit tired, will you, Mother?” 

Mrs. Hale turned to her with bright eyes 
and laughing lips. She showed no trace of 



246 


Betsy Hale 


worry over the book. “Don’t talk about 
being tired to me in this glorious weather,” 
she laughed. “Come, our festive garments 
are calling very loud. Don’t you hear them ? ” 
Betsy followed her up-stairs, rejoicing in her 
rising spirits. “She’ll be gayer than ever 
when she hears how much I’ve made at 
Bond’s,” she thought happily. “I’ll tell her 
when we’re coming home.” 



CHAPTER XV 


The Garden Party and Some Other 

Happenings 

T HE door clicked shut and the machine 
rolled off, leaving them at the great 
iron gates. 

Betsy drew a deep breath as she looked 
about her. “Oh, Mother,” she said in a 
low tone, “isn’t it perfectly lovely?” 

It was very beautiful. 

The day was a perfect one. The long avenue 
at the Shrubberies was banked with palms 
and ferns, a green pathway leading to the 
flower-decked porches where the receiving 
party made a bright spot of color among 
their bower of massed green. 

Everywhere there were people, moving 
about among the trees, chatting in groups 
or couples, and the light dresses of the women 
and the gorgeous masses of colored flowers 
banked here and there about the grounds 
made a picture that took Betsy’s breath. 

( 247 ) 


248 


Betsy Hale 


They followed some others to the main 
porch, where Mrs. Bond and her attending 
group stood welcoming the guests, and, oh, 
how proud Betsy felt of her pretty mother 
when their turn came to be received! How 
delightful it was to be conscious of a lovely 
limp frock and pale yellow gloves! How the 
precious silk stockings helped her bear up 
under the trying moment! 

For there, beside Mrs. Bond, were the 
same group who Betsy had met before. The 
smiling lady, still in elaborate blue, the 
blunt-featured young man and the sparkling 
young lady, all were there among the group. 
And they looked at her very hard indeed. 
Betsy was fearful that her first call might 
be brought to mind, but her mind was soon 
set at rest by the blunt-featured young 
man’s first speech to her mother, loud enough 
for Betsy to hear. 

“Mrs. Bond says the flapper in the yellow 
rig belongs to you, though ’pon my soul, 
I don’t believe it. How is it that we’ve never 
seen either of you here before?” 

He glanced at Betsy as he spoke, and 
that ardent disciple of truth was so forgetful 



The Garden Party 


249 


of her principles as to rejoice at his duplicity. 
“They won’t tell on me,” she said to her¬ 
self, and then, slipping away to join Helen 
in a group nearby, she gave herself up to 
the delights of the hour. 

Helen was in unusual spirits. She was 
chatting with Selma and Adeline, while a 
group of strange girls crowded about them. 

Betsy w^as very conscious, once again, of 
her yellow plumage, and she flushed a pretty 
pink as she came up to the group. She 
was not afraid of Selma or Adeline, but 
she dreaded Helen’s comments before the 
strangers. Helen, for once, disappointed her. 
She merely introduced Betsy to the others 
though her eyes and the eyes of Selma and 
Adeline spoke very agreeably to Betsy’s secret 
mind. She liked being looked at that way, 
though the words might have embarrassed her. 

Altogether, the Garden Party was quite 
as wonderful an event as could be wished. 

Betsy saw her mother from time to time 
walking, sitting, chatting with various people, 
and every time she caught a glimpse of her 
she grew prouder of her. To be sure, Mrs. 
Hale looked very pretty in the fine lace 



250 


Betsy Hale 


dress and wide hat, with the filmy scarf 
about her slender shoulders, but it was 
not her appearance that most delighted 
Betsy. It was the grace of her movements 
and the sweet tones of her voice, the clever 
speeches she made and the happy ease with 
which she took her place among the group 
of what Helen called “Mother’s lions”— 
the eminent professor from Edinburgh and 
the latest popular English novelist and the 
Irish lecturer. 

Selma and Adeline had been especially 
selected from the village group to stay for 
the supper and dance, and, with a few of the 
newcomers and Helen and Betsy, they made 
a merry party. 

They had a little table in the far corner 
of the second sun-parlor all to themselves 
and after that they were ready for the dancing 
when the music, which had been playing 
softly during the supper, began a pulsing 
waltz. 

Betsy followed Helen, who was to be her 
first partner, out to the dancing floor, while 
Selma and Adeline took partners from the 
other girls. They had agreed that the first 



The Garden Party 


251 


two dances were to be interchanged among 
themselves. 

The floor was perfect. The little lights 
were twinkling among the awnings that 
screened the dancing from the evening air, 
and their reflection shone like a hundred 
tiny stars on the polished surface at their 
feet. Betsy gave a little sigh of happiness 
as she waited for the older couples to begin 
the measure. 

“Oh, what fun it is to dance once again!” 
she said. “I used to love it so, but I haven’t 
had a chance since we came here. Isn’t 
the music perfect?” 

Helen laid a hand on her arm. “Your 
mother is beckoning you,” she said in a 
disappointed tone. “I do hope you don’t 
have to leave just yet.” 

Betsy sped to her mother’s chair, and as 
soon as she had seen her face, she forgot 
dancing and everything else. It was quite 
pale, though Mrs. Hale smiled bravely. 
No one else seemed to notice her pallor. 

“I shall have to go home, Betsy girl,” 
she said in a low voice. “You need not 
come—I merely wanted to tell you, so you 




252 


Betsy Hale 


wouldn't be alarmed. You will come later. 
Mrs. Bond will send you with the other 
girls. Go back to your dancing, my dear—” 

“Indeed I won’t,” cried Betsy under her 
breath. “I’ll go with you. Do you think 
I’d have a good time while you were alone 
and feeling sick? Why, I wouldn’t want 
to go to heaven itself unless you were well.” 

Her mother laughed faintly. She had 
no strength to argue. When they were in 
the car, speeding toward home, Betsy, seeing 
her mother revive somewhat, bethought her¬ 
self of her remaining source of consolation. 
She bent forward, so the words should not 
reach any ears save her mother’s. 

“Don’t worry about feeling ill, Mother 
dearest,” she said. “When the twenty 
dollars is quite gone, I’ll have some more 
for you. I’ve been earning such a lot!” 

Mrs. Hale took this news in an unex¬ 
pected manner. “ I suspected you were doing 
it,” she replied calmly. “I shouldn’t have 
spoken of it, though, until you were ready. 
Mrs. Bond had my consent to the plan, my 
dear, before she asked you.” 

Betsy gasped, but her mother went on: 



The Garden Party 


253 


“Of course, I shouldn’t allow you to earn 
money in that fashion for me. It is to be 
used for your own benefit. We will put your 
earnings away for the future.” 

Betsy was too much astonished for words. 
She sat silent for a little while, trying to 
adjust herself to the realities. Here had 
she been thinking herself so secret and 
clever in earning money for her mother, 
and all the while her mother and Mrs. Bond 
had been planning for her! She sighed with 
the sharpness of the disappointment, and 
then, as the funny side of it struck her, she 
raised her head and laughed. 

Through the following days she alternated 
between hope and fear for her other secrets. 
All her hopes were set on that momentous 
Friday. If it should prove stormy, or if the 
lemonade set should not arrive, how could 
she bear it? If her mother should be worse, 
or any one of a thousand accidents happen, 
w T hat could ever console her for her disap¬ 
pointment? 

It appeared, though, that all would go 
well. The pink dress was finished and care¬ 
fully smuggled into the Wee Corner and into 



254 


Betsy Hale 


Betsy’s closet, where it was hidden by a sheet 
until it should be brought forth on the happy 
morning. The lemonade set came while 
Mrs. Hale was out for a walk and Emma 
Clara, who had seen the coffee-man’s car 
in the village and, knowing it was not his 
regular day, had guessed his errand, had 
helped her unpack it in the woodshed, burn¬ 
ing all the excelsior and other evidence in 
the kitchen stove, and helping hide the 
precious pitcher and glasses before Mrs. 
Hale should return. 

“We can’t stop to look at it now,” Betsy 
explained, “but it’ll look all the better to 
us—on Friday . 

A breakfast cloth, together with three doilies 
manufactured from the same materials by 
Emma Clara’s skilful fingers, lay white and 
smooth in Betsy’s lower drawer under the 
paper of lavender that had been Emma 
Clara’s gift to Betsy at the same time. 

On Thursday afternoon all was ready. 
Even Betsy’s most anxious scrutiny of the 
weather found no flaw in the brilliant skies. 

It was the high tide of the spring time. 
Truly there was a new heaven and a new 
earth for all who had eyes and ears for it. 



The Garden Party 


255 


Betsy stood at the big box-bush looking 
towards the thicket where she had seen 
Philip grieving. “He’s going to have better 
times now, I guess,” she said. “He won’t 
ever be so lonely again.” 

She saw far away over the winding road, 
just where it met the sky, a figure that dis¬ 
appeared over the crest. She sighed im¬ 
patiently. “ That’s Jimmy—he’s back again. 
I wonder what he’ll be up to next? What 
a silly I was to think he had a Secret Heart. 
He’s just an imp, that’s all.” 

She heard the sound of Simpson’s supper 
bell, summoning Mr. Simpson from a nearby 
job. She knew the harsh tones well. “What 
a dear Emma Clara is and how glad I am 
that Mother likes her so much,” she thought. 
“I’d never have gotten through without her.” 

She stood very still, thinking of the happy 
days that had come to her at the W r ee Corner. 
Even her mother’s illness could be better 
borne there in their own little house, with 
its sunny garden and its cosy fireplace. 
And suddenly a great fear lest they should 
have to leave it, shook her, and she cried 
out fiercely, “We mustn’t, oh, we just can’t 



256 


Betsy Hale 


leave the Wee Corner! I couldn’t bear it 
now!” 

She laughed at her own vehemence a 
minute later. “Of course, we’re not going 
away. Even if Mother hasn’t said it in 
words—and she wouldn’t open her lips until 
tomorrow—I know that we’re not going.” 

A little later she added rather wistfully, 
“But I’ll be glad to hear her say so in real, 
true earnest. Oh, it seems as though to¬ 
morrow would never come!” 



CHAPTER XVI 


s 

The Birthday Party 


B ETSY woke the next morning in a panic 
lest she should have overslept, but a 
glance at the window satisfied her. 
The first rose tint of the sunrise was on the 
hill-tops, and she had the whole long precious 
day before her. She tiptoed past her mother’s 
door. She could hear her regular breathing 
and she knew all was well. It was still an 
hour before Emma Clara should appear. 

Betsy made what preparations she could, 
and then, lured by the sweetness of the 
morning, she slipped out of doors for a breath 
of the dewy air. 

Unconsciously she made her way to the 
meadow where the brook sang. The sun 
was slanting level pink rays across the hills 
as she went, and the light changed to gold as 
she stood beside the little stream. The 
whole world was radiant with the flood of 
sunshine, and the sky was very blue. 


( 257 ) 



17 


258 


Betsy Hale 


A yellow-brown streak was tearing down 
the long hill. Mac, on his morning run, had 
seen her from afar and was coming to her. 

She stopped to pat him and then dropped 
on one knee to put her arms about his neck. 
“Oh, Mac, you’ll never, never let anyone 
take you away again, will you?” she said 
earnestly. And he looked back at her with 
that deep look which dogs keep for their best 
friends. “I never will,” he tried to say. It 
was a compact of love. Betsy had found the 
companion which would never fail her while 
life and breath lasted. 

He loped beside her as she trotted back. 
Emma Clara was coming in by the box-bush 
and there was a sound of subdued tapping 
from the summer house. Philip Meade was 
waiting for her by the kitchen door. Wher¬ 
ever she looked there was friendliness and joy. 

She flew for one rapturous look at the table 
and seats Mr. Simpson was deftly fitting into 
place, and then she met Philip, who held out 
a daintily wrapped parcel. “Tin is low,” he 
said with a solemn wink to hide his feelings. 
“This is just some rubbish from the woods. 
Don’t you look,” he commanded as Betsy 



The Birthday Party 


259 


tried to peep at the hidden gift. “ She’s to 
see it first. Remember that.” 

He turned to go, adding, “It isn’t any¬ 
thing, though.” And then he came back. 
“Did you hear the news? I’m going to cut 
the Pub and if I make good, I’m to have a 
chance to go to college. It’s great, isn’t it? 
But Mrs. Bond won’t be sorry. I’m going 
to work like thunder—got a job for this 
summer already—and I’ll not take a cent 
more than I have to. I’ll pay her back twice 
over before I’m done,” and then he stalked 
out, with a nod and a word to Mr. Simpson 
his way. 

Betsy went indoors wdth Emma Clara, who 
had heard the news, too, and who was as 
much pleased as Betsy. “That boy is clean 
goods all the way through,” she said warmly. 
“He’ll stick to his word. But it’s mighty 
fine of Mrs. Bond, too.” 

Betsy was so excited she could hardly 
remember what she was doing. It was a 
blessing that Emma Clara was there or Mrs. 
Hale might have had to stay in her room 
for hah the morning. However, breakfast 
was soon ready, and Betsy flew up-stairs for 
her treasures. 




260 


Betsy Hale 


She got out the pink frock very carefully 
and smoothed her hair before she put it on. 
She wanted to be worthy of it. Then she 
found the cloth and doilies in their fragrant 
hiding place and hurried down past her 
mother’s door again. “You mustn’t come 
till I call,” she reminded her; “but it’ll be 
pretty soon now.” 

The lemonade set was brought out, and 
what a beautiful show it did make, to be sure. 
Betsy had not been mistaken in her selection. 
Emma Clara declared it to be the only one 
she had ever really admired. “They’re such 
trifling looking things generally,” she said. 
Her admiration was very gratifying. 

“What a fine thing that she can’t see the 
summer house from her room,” they told one 
another, as they laid the lace-edged cloth on 
the new square table between the two new 
seats. “And how nice the place looks,” they 
added, when the table was set with the very 
best dishes and they backed off to take the 
final survey. “One would never dream that 
the old summer house could make such a 
breakfast parlor.” 

They almost backed into one of the men 



The Birthday Party 


261 


from the Shrubberies, who was bringing a 
long wicker chair over the grass toward 
them. 

“Beg pardon, Miss,” he said, touching his 
hat. “Something from Miss Helen. Where 
shall I put it?” 

Betsy was so intent on the chair with its 
wide arm for holding books, and its long, 
comfortable stretch of green wicker foot-rest 
that Emma Clara had to tell him to put the 
chair on the short grass beside the border. 
“It will be just the place for your mother to 
sit,” she told Betsy after the man had left. 
“Besides, it’ll hide the inside of the summer 
house until she gets quite near. Isn’t it a 
beauty, though? Hark, there’s the gate 
again. We’ll never have breakfast at this 
rate. See who it is, while I slip inside for the 
rest of the things.” 

It was Selma and Adeline, giggling over 
a parcel which they handed to Betsy with, 
“Tell her ‘many happy returns’ and if she 
has breakfast out of doors, she’ll need them,” 
and then away they scampered, giggling. 
Betsy turned the parcel over. “It must be a 
joke,” she thought, and she tucked it under 



262 


Betsy Hale 


the seat beside the box that held the lemonade, 
set, before she hurried in to call her mother. 

How she trembled with delicious excite¬ 
ment when the moment actually came for 
Mrs. Hale to emerge from her room. What 
thrills of hope and happiness shot through 
her as her mother, in her “next-to-best” 
dress, came smiling down the stairs. “Oh, 
I hope you’ll like them all!” she cried. 
“They’re all outside. Come'ftnd see them— 
do come and see them!” 

Mrs. Hale seemed rather surprised, but 
she allowed Betsy to lead her out. They 
turned the corner of the path and there were 
the dainty little feast and the presents before 
them. 

It was quite as beautiful a birthday sur¬ 
prise as Betsy had desired. The tall pines 
flung their dark shadows on the smooth green 
of the grassy angle; the sweet scents of the 
late May-time wafted through the sunny air; 
the flicker of young leaves was on the s umm er 
house, the long wicker chair, and the seat 
and table with its dainty breakfast array all 
made a fascinating picture. 

Mrs. Hale gave a gasp of genuine sur- 



The Birthday Party 


263 


prise. “Why, Betsy!” was all that she could 
say. Amazement took her speech. 

Betsy pulled her toward the summer house. 
“The wicker chair is from Helen,” she ex¬ 
claimed rapidly,” and there’s a present from 
Philip under the seat, and Selma and Adeline 
brought something, too. And I got the table 
and seats all myself. I earned them by giving 
lessons to Emma Clara. Oh, mother, aren’t 
they lovely, and don't you just adore it all?” 
She was quite beside herself. 

Her mother was just as much excited. She 
passed the long chair with a single approving 
glance, and she hurried into the breakfast par¬ 
lor. She examined the table and the seats, 
and laughed and cried and kissed Betsy all 
at once. And then she noticed Betsy’s pink 
dress and the whole thing had to be gone over 
again. It was perfectly glorious. Betsy 
hardly noticed that the table was set for only 
two and that Emma Clara had disappeared. 

The little note on the cloth said she would 
be over later. “The coffee-pot is under the 
table on a hot brick, and my love to Mrs. 
Hale and many of them. It will fit her, 
for I made it by her old one. E. C. S. 



264 


Betsy Hale 


Betsy was too stupefied with happiness to 
understand. “ Does she mean that the coffee¬ 
pot will fit you? Or is it the hot brick?” 
she asked. 

Mrs. Hale laughed merrily as she stooped 
to the long, flat box which lay beside the 
steaming pot. It was a soft, pink lounging 
wrap that Emma Clara had meant and it 
justified her words, for, when Mrs. Hale 
slipped it on over her dress, it fell in graceful 
folds about her. “It’s just the thing for 
this birthday breakfast out of doors,” she 
declared. 

Betsy was intoxicated with the accumulat¬ 
ing delights. “Open the others,” she cried, 
hurrying out Philip’s package and Selma’s 
bundle from beneath the seat. “These first, 

and then-” she broke off in time. She 

did not want her mother to have even a hint 
of the lemonade set. 

Philip’s mossy bark basket with Anemones, 
Mayflowers and Quaker Ladies was put in 
the center of the table. “The sweetest 
thing he could have given me,” said Mrs. 
Hale, while Betsy was rather silent, feeling 
that Philip had done a very beautiful thing. 




The Birthday Party 


265 


“I was only thinking of things to buy ” she 
said to herself. 

She knew why Selma and Adeline had 
giggled so much, when her mother opened 
their parcel and brought out two cosies, one 
for tea and the other for the coffee-pot. A 
/ Chinaman in blue trousers and yellow coat 
was to keep the tea-pot warm, while a chubby 
white rabbit was to protect the coffee from 
chills. They were very funny indeed, and 
Mrs. Hale declared that any meal where 
either presided must have a cheerful flavor. 

Then came the climax. Betsy stooped to 
pull out The Box. 

A step on the path made her halt. Mrs. 
Delaney with a flat white parcel which looked 
much like pies, was at the door. 

She smiled broadly at the festive display 
with: “Sure, it’s the gran’ day fer presents/’ 
she said. “I’ll be takin’ me small gift back 
wid me, I guess. It ain’t pies ye’l be 
wantin’ with all them golliptious dew-dabs 
by yer han’.” 

Betsy w r as glad that her mother spoke so 
quickly. “Indeed, my birthday wouldn’t be 
complete without one of those delicious pies,” 



266 


Betsy Hale 


>* 

* she said earnestly. “I simply shan’t hear 
of your cheating me that way.” 

Mrs. Delaney chuckled. She advanced 
and, carefully taking the loose tissue paper 
cover from her gift, she set down on the table 
a pie that was a masterpiece. It had pale 
yellow custard beneath its foam of mer¬ 
ingue, and on its edges golden-brown crust 
showed, proving that it was a pie. Other¬ 
wise, one might have doubted it. For pink 
traceries of hearts, and white sugary letter¬ 
ing made a border around the central triumph 
—a pair of lumpy pink hands firmly clasped 
together, with their finger-nails done beauti¬ 
fully in white sugar and a frill of life-like lace 
about the wrist of one and a plain white 
wristband on the other. 

“Symbolic,” explained Mrs. Delaney. 
“’Tis the hand of enjurin’ friendship. Rip- 
resentin’ me and the family. Particularly 
the family,” she added, with a twinkle at 
Betsy. To Mrs. Hale she said, “And it’s 
to you, ma’am, that I’m bringin’ Jimmy’s 
respects. He’s askin’—of his own wish, 
mind ye—fer the chore-work again. Will 
you be takin’ him back, ma’am?” 




The Birthday Party 


267 


Of course they would. With that pie 
before them, what else was to be done? 

Mrs. Hale smiled as the good woman left. 
“ Jimmy begins to feel lonely, I fancy,” she 
said, and then stopped. Betsy was lifting 
The Box. 

The wrapping came off and the treasure 
was revealed, and in that first impulsive cry 
of her mother’s Betsy had her reward. 

“Oh, how sweet!” 

It swept away doubt and crowned the 
whole happy day. Betsy did not think she 
could be any happier in that moment. The 

i 

struggles and sacrifices that had been made 
seemed nothing now. She gave a ripple of 
sheer delight and cried, “Jemmy and I were 
sure you’d like it.” 

But Mrs. Hale did not notice. She pulled 
out a letter and pushed it across the cloth to 
Betsy. 

“Other people can keep secrets, too,” she 
said with a tremulous laugh. “You are not 
the only one, my dear.” 

Betsy did not take it in at first. And then 
as her eyes gathered up the fact, she looked 
up at her mother with a transformed face. 




268 


Betsy Hale 


“ They’ve taken it,” she whispered softly. 
Then she broke out triumphantly, “Oh, 
mother, you’ll be in all the book reviews! 
4 The gifted authoress, Mrs. Hale.’ Oh, how 
glorious it will sound!” 

Mrs. Hale tried to hush her raptures as 
Emma Clara came up, but it was no use. 
The joyful news had to be told at once. 
Betsy scanned the letter over and over. It 
was a document of so much interest to her that 
she could not lay it down. Suddenly she 
said, “But it’s dated the eighteenth of 
May-” 

Her mother laughed. “Tit for tat,” she 
replied. “I kept my secret for a birthday 
surprise. People who live in glass houses 
shouldn’t throw stones, you know.” 

Betsy sprang up. “It’s all right now, any¬ 
way—the lemonade set and all,” she said 
happily. “Now, I’ll go get a plate and cup 
for Emma Clara and we’ll have breakfast 
together after all.” 

She was moving off, when she came back 
with serious eyes. “But what about the 
Wee Corner?” she asked anxiously. “You 
haven’t said whether we’re to stay, or not.” 




The Birthday Party 


269 


Mrs. Hale laughed once again. “Why, 
of course, we’re going to stay,” she said, 
emphatically. Mrs. Warren was right. The 
Wee Corner was just made for us.” 

Betsy went off with her heart singing within 
her. 

She did not know what tune it sang until 
she was in the sunny, old-fashioned kitchen 
again, but a look at the comfortable face of 
the old clock brought it humming into words. 

“It’s fun—it’s fun—it’s fun to keep house,” 
the old clock ticked. 

And the kettle sang a steamy accompani¬ 
ment. 




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